“Who could suppose for a single moment that I should be obliged, on account of a scrap of paper which was evidently sent to my mother for her to dispose of as she liked, to become a pauper and to give a fortune to Lady Rose Bright?”

But although he was too astounded for speech, and his face showed strange, stern lines, it was now that there awoke in his heart the passionate longing to help her; he saw now her whole story in the most pathetic light, from the little child deserted by her mother, to the woman scorned and suffering, left by the same mother in such a gruesome temptation.  The greatness of the sin provoked the passionate longing to save her.  The man who had given up Groombridge Castle and all it entailed had not one harsh thought for the woman who had fallen into crime to avoid the poverty he had chosen for his own portion.

“It’s a hard, hard case,” he murmured, to Molly’s surprise.

She had been so occupied in her own outpouring that she had hardly thought of him at first, except as a human outlet for her story made safe by the fact that he was a priest.  But when he had betrayed his silent but most eloquent amazement, she had suddenly realised what the effect of her confidences might be on such a man, and half expected anathemas to thunder over her head.

Then he tried to find out whether there was any kind of hope that the will had, in fact, been sent to her mother to be at her disposal.  But suddenly Molly, who had herself suggested this idea, rent it to pieces and brought out the whole case against her mother (and, consequently, against herself) with a fierce logic of attack.

This was more like the Molly whom he had known before, and Mark felt the atmosphere a little clearer.  Having left not the faintest shadow of a defence for her own action, she suddenly became silent.  After some moments she leant forward.

“Do you know,” she said, in a tone so low that he only just caught the words, “I see now what must have happened.  It is strange that I never thought of it before.  I see it now quite clearly.  Of course the will and the letter were wrongly addressed, and probably some letter to my mother was sent to Lady Rose.”

“That does not follow,” said Father Molyneux.

“But it’s not unlikely,” argued Molly.  “It is more probable that the two letters should be put into the wrong envelopes than that one should be addressed to the wrong person.  It’s a mistake that is made every day, only the results are usually of less consequence.  It must have been curious reading for my mother—­that letter about herself to Lady Rose Bright.”

“It is so difficult,” said Mark, feeling his way cautiously, “to be sure of not acting on fancied facts when there are so few to go upon.  Do you suppose that the detective in Florence had any definite plan of action given to him by his employer?  For just supposing that your guess is right, they may have got some clue to what happened in the letter that was sent by mistake to Lady Rose.  Have you no notion at all whether they may not now have got some evidence to prove that there was another will?”