Allan Lyster was not altogether surprised at the receipt of this letter; he had anticipated some such blow.  He went with it at once to his friend and counsellor, his sister.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that there is an end of the whole business—­a dead failure.”

“Nothing of the kind,” she replied.  “Now you see the value of my advice over documentary evidence; these letters of yours are a fortune in themselves.”

“I do not see it,” he replied, gloomily.

“Men are not gifted with much foresight,” said Adelaide Lyster.  “Let us consider.  She has pledged her word, over and over again in those letters, to marry you.”

“She has done so,” he replied.

“Then you hold a position from which nothing can dislodge you.  If you were to go over and insist on her promise being carried out, it would be useless; not only would she refuse, but Lord and Lady Ridsdale would take her part against you, and all would be lost.  Evidently that plan would be quite useless.”

“Yes, there could result nothing save evil from such an attempt,” he replied.

“Take my advice, Allan.  Now answer me honestly, what is it that you hope to make out of this?  Do you care very much for the girl herself?”

“I like her,” was the hesitating answer; “but I must confess I care more for money than anything else.”

“Then I will teach you how to make money of this affair.  Write tomorrow, tell her you have received her letter, but that you must always love her, and that you shall hold her to her promise of being your wife.  The chances are that she will not answer that letter, and that for a time there will be silence between you.  Then,” she continued, “my advice to you is this:  wait until she marries.  You cannot marry her now, she will never be willing, but you can make a very decent fortune out of her when she is married.”

“In what way?” he asked.

“Hold those letters as a rod over her, threaten to bring an action against her—­she will never know that such an action cannot stand; or if that does not do, threaten to show them to her husband.  Rather than let him know, rather than let Lord and Lady Ridsdale know, she will give you thousands of pounds.”

Allan Lyster for one-half moment shrank from his sister.

“It seems so very bad,” he said.

“Not at all.  She will have more money than she can count; you have a right to some of it.  Of course, you will never really tell, but why not make what you can out of it?  She would not even miss a thousand a year and see what one thousand alone would do for you.”

So it was settled—­the fiendish plan that was to torture an innocent woman until she was driven to shame and almost death.  He wrote the letter.  Marion received it with silent disdain; she had told him that it must all be at an end, and it should be so.

Then, as Adelaide had wisely forseen, there fell silence between them.  Adelaide wrote at intervals; in one letter she said: