The letters from his wife were next examined.  They were dated back as far as Eunice’s first meeting with Manston, and the early ones before their marriage contained the usual pretty effusions of women at such a period of their existence.  Some little time after he had made her his wife, and when he had come to Knapwater, the series began again, and now their contents arrested her attention more forcibly.  She closed the cabinet, carried the letters into the parlour, reclined herself on the sofa, and carefully perused them in the order of their dates.

’JOHN STREET,
October 17, 1864.

’MY DEAREST HUSBAND,—­I received your hurried line of yesterday, and was of course content with it.  But why don’t you tell me your exact address instead of that “Post-Office, Budmouth?” This matter is all a mystery to me, and I ought to be told every detail.  I cannot fancy it is the same kind of occupation you have been used to hitherto.  Your command that I am to stay here awhile until you can “see how things look” and can arrange to send for me, I must necessarily abide by.  But if, as you say, a married man would have been rejected by the person who engaged you, and that hence my existence must be kept a secret until you have secured your position, why did you think of going at all?

’The truth is, this keeping our marriage a secret is troublesome, vexing, and wearisome to me.  I see the poorest woman in the street bearing her husband’s name openly—­living with him in the most matter-of-fact ease, and why shouldn’t I?  I wish I was back again in Liverpool.

’To-day I bought a grey waterproof cloak.  I think it is a little too long for me, but it was cheap for one of such a quality.  The weather is gusty and dreary, and till this morning I had hardly set foot outside the door since you left.  Please do tell me when I am to come.—­Very affectionately yours, EUNICE.’

’JOHN STREET,
October 25, 1864.

’MY DEAR HUSBAND,—­Why don’t you write?  Do you hate me?  I have not had the heart to do anything this last week.  That I, your wife, should be in this strait, and my husband well to do!  I have been obliged to leave my first lodging for debt—­among other things, they charged me for a lot of brandy which I am quite sure I did not taste.  Then I went to Camberwell and was found out by them.  I went away privately from thence, and changed my name the second time.  I am now Mrs. Rondley.  But the new lodging was the wretchedest and dearest I ever set foot in, and I left it after being there only a day.  I am now at No. 20 in the same street that you left me in originally.  All last night the sash of my window rattled so dreadfully that I could not sleep, but I had not energy enough to get out of bed to stop it.  This morning I have been walking—­I don’t know how far—­but far enough to make my feet ache.  I have been looking at the outside of two or three of the theatres, but they seem forbidding if I regard them with the eye of an