A carriage rolled up the driveway and he dropped the letter guiltily, as if it were not his own.  He would only say that he had grown tired of waiting and started to read it.  But it was only Mrs. Davis’s footman leaving a note for Leslie about some charity.

He went back to the letter.  Well, it was his.  Leslie had forfeited her right to see it as soon as he.  It might be mean, but it was not dishonest.  No, he would not read it now, but he would take it out and show her that he had exercised his self-control in spite of her shortcomings.  He laid it on the desk once more.  It leered at him.  He might just open the sheets enough to see the lines that began it, and read no further.  Yes, he would do that.  Leslie could not feel hurt at such a little thing.

The first line had only “Dear Brother.”  “Dear Brother”!  Why not the second?  That could not hold much more.  The second line held him, and the third, and the fourth, and as he read on, unmindful now of what Leslie might think or feel, his face turned from the ruddy glow of pleasant anxiety to the pallor of grief and terror.  He was not half-way through it when Mrs. Oakley’s voice in the hall announced her coming.  He did not hear her.  He sat staring at the page before him, his lips apart and his eyes staring.  Then, with a cry that echoed through the house, crumpling the sheets in his hand, he fell forward fainting to the floor, just as his wife rushed into the room.

“What is it?” she cried.  “Maurice!  Maurice!”

He lay on the floor staring up at the ceiling, the letter clutched in his hands.  She ran to him and lifted up his head, but he gave no sign of life.  Already the servants were crowding to the door.  She bade one of them to hasten for a doctor, others to bring water and brandy, and the rest to be gone.  As soon as she was alone, she loosed the crumpled sheets from his hand, for she felt that this must have been the cause of her husband’s strange attack.  Without a thought of wrong, for they had no secrets from each other, she glanced at the opening lines.  Then she forgot the unconscious man at her feet and read the letter through to the end.

The letter was in Frank’s neat hand, a little shaken, perhaps, by nervousness.

“Dear brother,” it ran, “I know you will grieve at receiving this, and I wish that I might bear your grief for you, but I cannot, though I have as heavy a burden as this can bring to you.  Mine would have been lighter to-day, perhaps, had you been more straightforward with me.  I am not blaming you, however, for I know that my hypocrisy made you believe me possessed of a really soft heart, and you thought to spare me.  Until yesterday, when in a letter from Esterton he casually mentioned the matter, I did not know that Berry was in prison, else this letter would have been written sooner.  I have been wanting to write it for so long, and yet have been too great a coward to