She was away for a few minutes, and I heard the cab drive off before she returned.  That was the chief point gained.  When the papers were in my hand, I just glanced at them, and that was all.

“Have you any idea where they came from?” I asked.

“There is the London post-mark on the envelop,” answered Foster.—­“Show it to him, Carry.  There is nothing to be learned from that.”

“No,” I said, comparing the handwriting on the envelop with the letter, and finding them the same.  “Well, good-by!  I cannot often pay you as long a visit as this.”

I hurried off quickly to the corner of Dawson Street, where Johanna was waiting for me.  She looked exceedingly contented when I took my seat beside her in the cab.

“Well, Martin,” she said, “you need suffer no more anxiety.  Olivia has gone as English teacher in an excellent French school, where the lady is thoroughly acquainted with English ways and comforts.  This is the prospectus of the establishment.  You see there are ’extensive grounds for recreation, and the comforts of a cheerfully happy home, the domestic arrangements being on a thoroughly liberal scale.’  Here is also a photographic view of the place:  a charming villa, you see, in the best French style.  The lady’s husband is an avocat; and every thing is taught by professors—­cosmography and pedagogy, and other studies of which we never heard when I was a girl.  Olivia is to stay there twelve months, and in return for her services will take lessons from any professors attending the establishment.  Your mind may be quite at ease now.”

“But where is the place?” I inquired.

“Oh! it is in Normandy—­Noireau,” she said—­“quite out of the range of railways and tourists.  There will be no danger of any one finding her out there; and you know she has changed her name altogether this time.”

“Did you discover that Olivia and Ellen Martineau are the same persons?” I asked.

An expression of bewilderment and consternation came across her contented face.

“No, I did not,” she answered; “I thought you were sure of that.”

But I was not sure of it; neither could Jack be sure.  He puzzled himself in trying to give a satisfactory description of his Ellen Martineau; but every answer he gave to my eager questions plunged us into greater uncertainty.  He was not sure of the color either of her hair or eyes, and made blundering guesses at her height.  The chief proof we had of Olivia’s identity was the drunken claim made upon Ellen Martineau by Foster, a month after he had received convincing proof that she was dead.  What was I to believe?

It was running too great a risk to make any further inquiries at No. 19 Bellringer Street.  Mrs. Wilkinson was the landlady of the lodging-house, and she had told Johanna that Madame Perrier boarded with her when she was in London.  But she might begin to talk to her other lodgers, if her own curiosity were excited; and once more my desire to fathom the mystery hanging about Olivia might plunge her into fresh difficulties, should they reach the ears of Foster or his wife.