“My dearest Fanny, I know I must have appeared very strange to you and very unkind—­often even cruel; before the end of this week I will show you the necessity of my conduct; how impossible it was that I should have seemed otherwise.  I am conscious that many acts of mine must have inevitably given rise to painful suspicions—­suspicions, which indeed, upon one occasion you very properly communicated to me.  I have gotten two letters from a quarter which commands respect, containing information as to the course by which I may be enabled to prove the negative of all the crimes which even the most credulous suspicion could lay to my charge.  I expected a third by this morning’s post, containing documents which will set the matter for ever at rest, but owing, no doubt, to some neglect, or, perhaps, to some difficulty in collecting the papers, some inevitable delay, it has not come to hand this morning, according to my expectation.  I was finishing one to the very same quarter when you came in, and if a sound rousing be worth anything, I think I shall have a special messenger before two days have passed.  I have been thinking over the matter within myself, whether I had better imperfectly clear up your doubts by submitting to your inspection the two letters which I have already received, or wait till I can triumphantly vindicate myself by the production of the documents which I have already mentioned, and I have, I think, not unnaturally decided upon the latter course; however, there is a person in the next room, whose testimony is not without its value—­excuse me for one moment.”

So saying, he arose and went to the door of a closet which opened from the study, this he unlocked, and half opening the door, he said, “It is only I,” and then slipped into the room, and carefully closed and locked the door behind him.  I immediately heard his voice in animated conversation; my curiosity upon the subject of the letter was naturally great, so smothering any little scruples which I might have felt, I resolved to look at the address of the letter which lay as my husband had left it, with its face upon the table.  I accordingly drew it over to me, and turned up the direction.  For two or three moments I could scarce believe my eyes, but there could be no mistake—­in large characters were traced the words, “To the Archangel Gabriel in heaven.”  I had scarcely returned the letter to its original position, and in some degree recovered the shock which this unequivocal proof of insanity produced, when the closet door was unlocked, and Lord Glenfallen re-entered the study, carefully closing and locking the door again upon the outside.

“Whom have you there?” inquired I, making a strong effort to appear calm.

“Perhaps,” said he musingly, “you might have some objection to seeing her, at least for a time.”

“Who is it?” repeated I.

“Why,” said he, “I see no use in hiding it—­the blind Dutchwoman; I have been with her the whole morning.  She is very anxious to get out of that closet, but you know she is odd, she is scarcely to be trusted.”