“Olivia’s is not,” I said; “I know her handwriting too well.”

“Well, then,” observed Jack, “there is only one explanation.  She has sent them herself to throw Foster off the scent; she thinks she will be safe if he believes her dead.”

“No,” I answered, hotly, “she would never have done such a thing as that.”

“Who else is benefited by it?” he asked, gravely.  “It does not put Foster into possession of any of her property; or that would have been a motive for him to do it.  But he gains nothing by it; and he is so convinced of her death that he has married a second wife.”

It was difficult to hit upon any other explanation; yet I could not credit this one.  I felt firmly convinced that Olivia could not be guilty of an artifice so cunning.  I was deceived in her indeed if she would descend to any fraud so cruel.  But I could not discuss the question even with Jack Senior.  Tardif was the only person who knew Olivia well enough to make his opinion of any value.  Besides, my mind was not as clear as Jack’s that she was the girl he had seen in November.  Yet the doubt of her death was full of hope; it made the earth more habitable, and life more endurable.

“What can I do now?” I said, speaking aloud, though I was thinking to myself.

“Martin,” he replied, gravely, “isn’t it wisest to leave the matter as it stands?  If you find Olivia, what then? she is as much separated from you as she can be by death.  So long as Foster lives, it is worse than useless to be thinking of her.  There is no misery like that of hanging about a woman you have no right to love.”

“I only wish to satisfy myself that she is alive,” I answered.  “Just think of it, Jack, not to know whether she is living or dead!  You must help me to satisfy myself.  Foster has got the only valuable thing she had in her possession, and if she is living she may be in absolute want.  I cannot be contented with that dread on my mind.  There can be no harm in my taking some care of her at a distance.  This mystery would be intolerable to me.”

“You’re right, old fellow,” he said, cordially; “we will go to Ridley’s together to-morrow morning.”

We were there soon after the doors were open.  There were not many clients present, and the clerks were enjoying a slack time.  Jack had recalled to his mind the exact date of his former visit; and thus the sole difficulty was overcome.  The clerk found the name of Ellen Martineau entered under that date in his book.

“Yes,” he said, “Miss Ellen Martineau, English teacher in a French school; premium to be paid, about 10 Pounds; no salary; reference, Mrs. Wilkinson, No. 19 Bellringer Street.”

“No. 19 Bellringer Street!” we repeated in one breath.

“Yes, gentlemen, that is the address,” said the clerk, closing the book.  “Shall I write it down for you?  Mrs. Wilkinson was the party who should have paid our commission; as you perceive, a premium was required instead of a salary given.  We feel pretty sure the young lady went to the school, but Mrs. Wilkinson denies it, and it is not worth our while to pursue our claim in law.”