But Sir Edmund was obstinate.  The piece of paper had been intended for Madame Danterre, together with the ring and the photograph—­things belonging to Sir David’s early life, to the days when he most probably loved this other woman; he even went so far as to maintain that the lady in Florence had given Sir David the ring.

“After all,” said Mr. Murray, “what can you do?  You could only raise hopes that won’t be fulfilled.”

“I think myself that my explanation would calm my cousin’s mind; the possibility that she was not Sir David’s wife is, I am convinced, the most painful part of the trial to her.  I shall write it to her, but I shall also tell her that there is no hope whatever of proving what I believe to be the truth.”

“None at all; do impress that upon her, Sir Edmund.  We have nothing to begin upon.  The officer who sent the paper to headquarters is dead; Sir David’s own servant is dead; Sir David’s will in favour of Madame Danterre has been published without even a protest.”

“Lady Rose will not be inclined to raise the question.”

“No, I believe that is true,” said the lawyer; “Lady Rose Bright is a wise woman.”

But Mr. Murray was annoyed to find that Edmund Grosse was far less wise, and that whatever he might promise to say to Rose he would not really be content to leave things alone.  He intended to go to Florence and to get into touch with Madame Danterre.  Such interference could do no good, and it might do harm.

“I won’t alarm her,” said Edmund, “believe me, she will have no reason to suppose that I am in Florence on her account.  I am, in any case, going to the Italian lakes this autumn, and I have often been offered the loan of a flat overlooking the Arno.  If the offer is still open I shall accept it.  I have long wished to know that fascinating town a little better.”

When Rose received the letter from Edmund it had the effect he had expected.  It was simply calming, not exciting.  Rose was even more anxious than the lawyer that nothing should be attempted in order to follow up her cousin’s suggestion.  But she could now let her imagination be comforted by Edmund’s solution of the mystery, and let her fancy rest in the thought of a very different letter intended for herself.  The words on that scrap of paper no longer burnt with such agony into her soul, and she no longer felt it a dreadful duty to wear the ring with its glorious stone so full of light, an object that was to her intensely repugnant.  She would put it away, and with it all dark and morbid thoughts.  She had a life to lead, thoughts to think, actions to do, and all that was in her own control must escape from the shadow of the past into a working daylight.

CHAPTER IV

THE WICKED WOMAN IN FLORENCE

Edmund Grosse’s friend was delighted to put the flat in the Palazzo at his disposal.  The weather was unusually warm for the autumn when Edmund arrived in Florence.  He was glad to get there, and glad to get away from the gay group he had left in a beautiful villa on Lake Como; and probably they were glad to see him go.