I could not suppose, for one moment, that I was the only one in the world who knew her secret—­there must be others, and, meeting her suddenly, one of these might betray her secret, might do her greater harm and more mischief than I could do.  After hours of weary thought, I came to this conclusion, that I must find out first of all whether my suspicions were correct or not.  That was evidently my first duty.  I must know whether there was any truth in my suspicions or not.  I hated myself for the task that lay before me, to watch a woman, to seek to entrap her, to play the detective, to seek to discover the secret of one who had so frankly and cordially offered me friendship.

Yet it was equally hateful to know that a bad and wicked woman, branded with sin, stained with murder, had deceived an honest, loyal man like Lance Fleming.  Look which way I would, it was a most cruel dilemma—­pity, indignation, wonder, fear, reluctance, all tore at my heart.  Was Frances Fleming the good, pure, tender-hearted woman she seemed to be, or was she the woman branded with a secret brand?  I must find out for Lance’s sake.  There were times when intense pity softened my heart, almost moved me to tears; then the recollection of the tiny white baby lying all night in the sea, swaying to and fro with the waves, steeled me.  I could see again the pure little waxen face, as the kindly woman kissed it on the pier.  I could see the little green grave with the shining cross—­“Marah, found drowned,” and here beside me, talking to me, tending me with gentle solicitude, was the very woman, I feared, who had drowned the child.  There were times—­I remember one particularly—­when she held out a bunch of fine hothouse grapes to me, that I could have cried out—­“It is the hand of a murderess; take it away,” but I restrained myself.

I declare that, during a whole fortnight, I watched her incessantly; I scrutinized every look, every gesture; I criticised every word, and in neither one nor the other did I find the least shadow of blame.  She seemed to me pure in heart, thought and word.  At times, when she read or sang to us, there was a light such as one fancies the angels wear.  Then I found also what Lance said of her charity to the poor was perfectly true—­they worshipped her.  No saint was a greater saint to them than the woman whom I believed I had seen drown a little child.

It seemed as though she could hardly do enough for them; the minute she heard that any one was sick or sorry she went to their aid.  I have known this beautiful woman, whose husband adored her, give up a ball or a party to sit with some poor woman whose child was ill, or was ill herself.  And I must speak, too, of her devotion—­to see the earnest, tender piety on her beautiful face was marvelous.

“Look, John,” Lance would whisper to me; “my wife looks like an angel.”

I was obliged to own that she did.  But what was the soul like that animated the beautiful body?