regret for “what might have been” in their home life.  The man had been of a wholesome nature; his great physical courage was part of a good fellow’s construction.  But he had been taught to worship a good name, an unsullied reputation, and to love things of good repute too much, perhaps, for the sake of their repute, as he could not venture to risk the shadow for the reality.  The effect of reading Sir David’s last letter to Rose on an unbiassed reader of a humane turn of mind would have been an intensity of pity, and a sigh at the sadness of life on this planet.

Molly was passionately biassed, and as much of Sir David’s story as reached her through the letter was to her simply a sickening revelation from a cowardly traitor of his own treason through life, and even up to the hour of death.  Her mother had been basely deceived; for his sake she had been divorced, and he had denied the marriage that followed.  Of course, it was a marriage, or he would never have been so frightened.  Then her mother, thus deserted, young and weak, had gone astray, and he had defended himself by threatening divorce if she proclaimed herself his wife.  Every word of the history was interpreted on the same lines.  And then, last of all, this will was sent to her mother.  Was it a tardy repentance?  Had he, perhaps when too weak for more, asked some one to send it to Madame Danterre that she might destroy it?  If so, why had she not destroyed it?  Why, if it might honourably have been destroyed, send to Molly now a will that, if proved, would make her an absolute pauper?  In plain figures Molly’s fortune could not be less than L20,000 a year if that paper did not exist, and would be under L80 a year if it were valid.

Molly next seized on one of the old packets of letters in trembling hope of some further light being thrown on the situation, but in them was evidence impossible to deny that her mother had invented the whole story of the marriage.  Why Madame Danterre had not destroyed these letters was a further mystery, except that, time after time, it has been proved that people have carefully preserved evidence of their own crimes.  Fighting against it, almost crying out in agonised protest, Molly was forced to realise the slow persevering cunning and unflinching cruelty with which her mother had pursued her victim.  It was an ugly story for any girl to read if the woman had had no connection with her.  It seemed to cut away from Molly all shreds of self-respect as she read it.  She felt that the daughter of such a woman must have a heritage of evil in her nature.

The packet of old letters finished, there was yet something more to find.  Next came a packet of prescriptions and some receipts from shops.  Under these were the faded photographs of several men and women of whom she knew nothing.  Lastly, there was half a letter written to Molly dated in August and left unfinished and without a signature: 

     “CARISSIMA: