“Norah!” said Mr. Openshaw, in his kindest voice, “the brooch is found.  It was hanging to Mrs. Chadwick’s gown.  I beg your pardon.  Most truly I beg your pardon, for having troubled you about it.  My wife is almost broken-hearted.  Eat, Norah,—­or, stay, first drink this glass of wine,” said he, lifting her head, pouring a little down her throat.

As she drank, she remembered where she was, and who she was waiting for.  She suddenly pushed Mr. Openshaw away, saying, “O, sir, you must go.  You must not stop a minute.  If he comes back he will kill you.”

“Alas, Norah!  I do not know who ‘he’ is.  But some one is gone away who will never come back:  someone who knew you, and whom I am afraid you cared for.”

“I don’t understand you, sir,” said Norah, her master’s kind and sorrowful manner bewildering her yet more than his words.  The policeman had left the room at Mr. Openshaw’s desire, and they two were alone.

“You know what I mean, when I say some one is gone who will never come back.  I mean that he is dead!”

“Who?” said Norah, trembling all over.

“A poor man has been found in the Thames this morning, drowned.”

“Did he drown himself?” asked Norah, solemnly.

“God only knows,” replied Mr. Openshaw, in the same tone.  “Your name and address at our house, were found in his pocket:  that, and his purse, were the only things, that were found upon him.  I am sorry to say it, my poor Norah; but you are required to go and identify him.”

“To what?” asked Norah.

“To say who it is.  It is always done, in order that some reason may be discovered for the suicide—­if suicide it was.  I make no doubt he was the man who came to see you at our house last night.  It is very sad, I know.”  He made pauses between each little clause, in order to try and bring back her senses; which he feared were wandering—­so wild and sad was her look.

“Master Openshaw,” said she, at last, “I’ve a dreadful secret to tell you—­only you must never breathe it to any one, and you and I must hide it away for ever.  I thought to have done it all by myself, but I see I cannot.  Yon poor man—­yes! the dead, drowned creature is, I fear, Mr. Frank, my mistress’s first husband!”

Mr. Openshaw sate down, as if shot.  He did not speak; but, after a while, he signed to Norah to go on.

“He came to me the other night—­when—­God be thanked—­you were all away at Richmond.  He asked me if his wife was dead or alive.  I was a brute, and thought more of our all coming home than of his sore trial:  spoke out sharp, and said she was married again, and very content and happy:  I all but turned him away:  and now he lies dead and cold!”

“God forgive me!” said Mr. Openshaw.

“God forgive us all!” said Norah.  “Yon poor man needs forgiveness perhaps less than any one among us.  He had been among the savages—­shipwrecked—­I know not what—­and he had written letters which had never reached my poor missus.”