Thus the letter ended.  From creases in the paper it was plain that the writer, having got so far, had become dissatisfied with her production, and had crumpled it in her hand.  Was it to write another, or not to write at all?

The next thing Anne Seaway perceived was that the fragmentary story she had coaxed out of Manston, to the effect that his wife had left England for America, might be truthful, according to two of these letters, corroborated by the evidence of the railway-porter.  And yet, at first, he had sworn in a passion that his wife was most certainly consumed in the fire.

If she had been burnt, this letter, written in her bedroom, and probably thrust into her pocket when she relinquished it, would have been burnt with her.  Nothing was surer than that.  Why, then, did he say she was burnt, and never show Anne herself this letter?

The question suddenly raised a new and much stranger one—­kindling a burst of amazement in her.  How did Manston become possessed of this letter?

That fact of possession was certainly the most remarkable revelation of all in connection with this epistle, and perhaps had something to do with his reason for never showing it to her.

She knew by several proofs, that before his marriage with Cytherea, and up to the time of the porter’s confession, Manston believed —­honestly believed—­that Cytherea would be his lawful wife, and hence, of course, that his wife Eunice was dead.  So that no communication could possibly have passed between his wife and himself from the first moment that he believed her dead on the night of the fire, to the day of his wedding.  And yet he had that letter.  How soon afterwards could they have communicated with each other?

The existence of the letter—­as much as, or more than its contents —­implying that Mrs. Manston was not burnt, his belief in that calamity must have terminated at the moment he obtained possession of the letter, if no earlier.  Was, then, the only solution to the riddle that Anne could discern, the true one?—­that he had communicated with his wife somewhere about the commencement of Anne’s residence with him, or at any time since?

It was the most unlikely thing on earth that a woman who had forsaken her husband should countenance his scheme to personify her —­whether she were in America, in London, or in the neighbourhood of Knapwater.

Then came the old and harassing question, what was Manston’s real motive in risking his name on the deception he was practising as regarded Anne.  It could not be, as he had always pretended, mere passion.  Her thoughts had reverted to Mr. Raunham’s letter, asking for proofs of her identity with the original Mrs. Manston.  She could see no loophole of escape for the man who supported her.  True, in her own estimation, his worst alternative was not so very bad after all—­the getting the name of libertine, a possible appearance in the divorce or some other court of law, and a question of damages.  Such an exposure might hinder his worldly progress for some time.  Yet to him this alternative was, apparently, terrible as death itself.