“I did not even suspect it, at first, madam.  At the trial of John Scott, on the charge of murder of Sir Lemuel Levison, to which I was summoned as a witness for the crown, some facts were developed that first awoke my suspicions as to the cause of my wife’s flight.  These suspicions were further strengthened by the tone of her letter, received three weeks afterwards, and they were absolutely confirmed by a revelation I have received this day.”

“From John Scott?”

“Yes, madam.”

“You know the cause of your bride’s flight, monseigneur.  Do you blame her for it?”

“Under such circumstances, I honor her for it.  She nearly broke her own heart and mine; but, as a pure woman, believing as she was forced to believe, she could do no less.  Now, madam, I have answered all your questions.  Now relieve my anxiety—­tell me where she is.”

“First tell me where you have been seeking her?” inquired the abbess, with a singular smile.

“In Italy, of course!  Her letter was post-marked Rome, though without any other address,” said the duke, lightly lifting his eyebrows.

“That letter was written in this house, and sent to Rome to be mailed thence, in order to put you off the true track of the duchess, monseigneur,” said the abbess, with a smile.

“What do you tell me, madam!” exclaimed the duke, in surprise.

“Madame la Duchesse is under this roof, to which she fled for refuge direct from London!”

“Can this be possible, madam?”

“It is true!  To whom, indeed, could the child come, in her extremity, but to me, the mother of her motherless youth?”

“Oh, madam, you fill my heart with joy and gratitude!  My wife under this roof?”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“And safe and well?”

“Safe and well.”

“Thank Heaven!  Can I see her at once?  Does she know I am here?  Does she know—­”

“She knows everything, monseigneur, that you would have her know, although she has not heard the confession of John Scott, which has just been made to you.  She knows everything by means of the agencies I set to work to investigate the truth.  And she knows that you will forgive her, through the intuitions of her own spirit.”

“When can I see her, madam?  Oh, when?” exclaimed the young duke, rising impatiently.

“This moment, if you please.  She is expecting you.  Follow me, monseigneur,” said the abbess, rising and leading the way through the broad hall that stretched between the wicket room and the lady-superior’s parlor.

When they reached the place, the abbess said: 

“Enter, monseigneur.  You will find the duchess alone, within.”

And she opened the door and admitted him, then closed it behind him, and paced slowly away from the spot.

As the duke advanced into the room, so silently that his footsteps were unheard, he saw his wife sitting within the recess of the solitary window.  She wore a simple dress of black serge, with a white collar and white cuffs, such as she had worn ever since her entrance into the convent.  Her head was turned toward the window and bowed upon her hand in an attitude of meditation.  She neither saw nor heard the soft approach of the duke.  He stood gazing on her with infinite pity, for a moment, and then laying his hand gently on her shoulder, whispered: