The miller was quite honest; and Lord Hartledon knew that when he said he had not opened it, he had not done so.  It still contained some small memoranda in his brother’s writing, but no money; and this was noticeable, since it was quite certain to have had money in it on that day.

“Those who buried it might have taken it out,” he observed, following the bent of his thoughts.

“But who did bury it; and where did they find it, to allow of their burying it?” questioned the miller.  “How did they come by it?—­that’s the odd thing.  I am certain it was not in the skiff, for I searched that over myself.”

Lord Hartledon said little.  He could not understand it; and the incident, with the slips of paper, was bringing his brother all too palpably before him.  One of them had concerned himself, though in what manner he would never know now.  It ran as follows:  “Not to forget Val.”  Poor fellow!  Poor Lord Hartledon!

“Would your lordship like to come and see the spot where I found it?” asked the miller.

Lord Hartledon said he should, and would go in the course of the day; and Floyd took his departure.  Val sat on for a time where he was, and then went in, locked up the damp case with its tarnished rims, and went on to the presence of his wife.

She was dressed now, but had not left her bedroom.  It was evident that she meant to be kind and pleasant with him; different from what she had been, for she smiled, and began a little apology for her tardiness, saying she would get up to breakfast in future.

He motioned her back to her seat on the sofa before the open window, and sat down near her.  His face was grave; she thought she had never seen it so much so—­grave and firm, and his voice was grave too, but had a kindly tone in it.  He took both her hands between his as he spoke; not so much, it seemed in affection, as to impress solemnity upon her.

“Maude, I’m going to ask you a question, and I beg you to answer me as truthfully as you could answer Heaven.  Have you any wish that we should live apart from each other?”

“I do not understand you,” she answered, after a pause, during which a flush of surprise or emotion spread itself gradually over her face.

“Nay, the question is plain.  Have you any wish to separate from me?”

“I never thought of such a thing.  Separate from you!  What can you mean?”

“Your mother has dropped a hint that you have not been happy with me.  I could almost understand her to imply that you have a positive dislike to me.  She sought to explain her words away, but certainly spoke them.  Is it so, Maude?  I fancied something of the sort myself in the earlier days of our marriage.”

He turned his head sharply at a sudden sound, but it was only the French clock on the mantelpiece striking eleven.

“Because,” he resumed, having waited in vain for an answer, “if such should really be your wish, I will accede to it.  I desire your comfort, your happiness beyond any earthly thing; and if living apart from me would promote it, I will sacrifice my own feelings, and you shall not hear a murmur.  I would sacrifice my life for you.”