Mr. Carr made no reply, and a pause ensued.  In truth, the matter was encompassed with difficulties on all sides; and the barrister could but acknowledge that Val’s argument had some sort of reason in it.  Having bound her to himself by marriage, it might be right that he should study her happiness above all things.

“It has put new life into me,” Val resumed, pointing to the letter.  “Now that he has promised to keep the secret, there’s little to fear; and I know that he will keep his word.  I must bear the burden as I best can, and keep a smiling face to the world.”

“Did you read the postscript?” asked Mr. Carr; a feeling coming over him that Val had not read it.

“The postscript?”

“There’s a line or two over the leaf.”

Lord Hartledon glanced at it, and found it ran thus: 

“You must be aware that another person knows of this besides myself.  He who was a witness at the time, and from whom I heard the particulars.  Of course for him I cannot answer, and I think he is in England.  I allude to G.G.  Lord H. will know.”

“Lord H.” apparently did know.  He gazed down at the words with a knitted brow, in which some surprise was mingled.

“I declare that I understood him that night to say the fellow had died.  Did not you?”

“I did,” acquiesced Mr. Carr.  “I certainly assumed it as a fact, until this letter came to-day.  Gordon was the name, I think?”

“George Gordon.”

“Since reading the letter I have been endeavouring to recollect exactly what he did say; and the impression on my mind is, that he spoke of Gordon as being probably dead; not that he knew it for a certainty.  How I could overlook the point so as not to have inquired into it more fully, I cannot imagine.  But, you see, we were not discussing details that night, or questioning facts:  we were trying to disarm him—­get him not to proceed against you; and for myself, I confess I was so utterly stunned that half my wits had left me.”

“What is to be done?”

“We must endeavour to ascertain where Gordon is,” replied Mr. Carr, as he re-enclosed the letter in his pocket-book.  “I’ll write and inquire what his grounds are for thinking he is in England; and then trace him out—­if he is to be traced.  You give me carte-blanche to act?”

“You know I do, Carr.”

“All right.”

“And when you have traced him—­what then?”

“That’s an after-question, and I must be guided by circumstances.  And now I’ll wish you good-night,” continued the barrister, rising.  “It’s a shame to have kept you up; but the letter contains some consolation, and I knew I could not bring it you to-morrow.”

The drawing-room was lighted when Lord Hartledon went upstairs; and his wife sat there with a book, as if she meant to remain up all night.  She put it down as he entered.

“Are you here still, Maude!  I thought you were tired when you came home.”