“I hoped and believed that no one knew of her flight except the members of our own household, and the single confidential agent I employed to find her, and on whose discretion I could implicitly rely,” said the duke, in a tone of extreme mortification and sorrow.

“Be tranquil, monseigneur, no one does know of it out of the circle of her own devoted friends, who can never misinterpret it.”

“You know something of the duchess’ movements, then?  You know, perhaps, the cause of her flight—­the place of her residence?  You know—­ah, madam, tell me what you know, I beseech you!” implored the duke.

“I know the cause of her flight, and justify her action even though she acted under a false impression.  I know the place of her residence, and will tell it to you after you shall have answered one or two questions that I shall put to you.  First then, monseigneur, when did you last hear of the duchess?”

“Some few weeks after her flight, I received the first and last news I have ever had of my lost bride.  It came in a short and cautiously written note from herself.  This note was without date or address.  It was apparently written in kind consideration for me, but it contained no word of affection.  It was signed by her maiden name and post-marked Rome.”

The abbess smiled as she remembered that letter which had been written by Salome to put her husband out of suspense, and which had been sent by the mother superior, through a confidential agent who happened to be going there, to be mailed from Rome, to put the Duke of Hereward entirely off the track of his lost wife.

“I have the note in my pocketbook.  You may read it, madam, if you please,” continued the duke, as he opened his portmonnaie and handed her a tiny, folded paper.

The abbess took it and read as follows: 

“DUKE OF HEREWARD:  I have just arisen from a bed of illness which has lasted ever since my flight, and prevented me from writing to you up to this time.

“I write now only to relieve any anxiety that you may feel on account of one in whom you took too much interest; for I would not have you suffer needless pain.

“You know the reason of my flight; or if you do not, my maiden name, at the foot of this note, will tell you how surely I had learned that it was my bounden duty to leave you instantly.

“I left you without malice, trying to put the best construction on your motives and actions, if any such were possible; I left you with sorrow, praying the Lord to forgive and save you.

“I dare not write to you as I feel toward you, for that would be a sin.

“I have entered a religious house, where, by prayer and labor, I may live down all “inordinate and sinful affections,” and where I shall henceforth be dead to the world and to you.

“This, then, is the very last you will hear of her who was once known as SALOME LEVISON.”

“She says you knew the cause of her flight. Did you know it, monseigneur?” inquired the abbess, when she had finished reading the note, and had returned it to the owner.