She uttered an incredulous cry and tore the letter open.  A light struck up from it into her face as she read—­a radiance that smote me to the soul.  For a moment I longed to snatch the paper from her and efface the name on the back.  It hurt me to think how short-lived her happiness must be.

Then she did a fatal thing.  She came up to me, caught my two hands and kissed them.  “Oh, thank you—­bless you a thousand times!  He died thinking of us—­he died loving Italy!”

I put her from me gently:  it was not the kiss I wanted, and the touch of her lips hardened me.

She shone on me through her happy tears.  “What happiness—­what consolation you have brought my poor mother!  This will take the bitterness from her grief.  And that it should come to her now!  Do you know, she had a presentiment of it?  When we heard of the Duke’s flight her first word was:  ‘Now we may find Emilio’s letter.’  At heart she was always sure that he had written—­I suppose some blessed instinct told her so.”  She dropped her face on her hands, and I saw her tears fall on the wretched letter.

In a moment she looked up again, with eyes that blessed and trusted me.  “Tell me where you found it,” she said.

I told her.

“Oh, the savages!  They took it from him—­”

My opportunity had come.  “No,” I said, “it appears they did not take it from him.”

“Then how—­”

I waited a moment.  “The letter,” I said, looking full at her, “was given up to the warder of the prison by the son of Doctor Briga.”

She stared, repeating the words slowly.  “The son of Doctor Briga?  But that is—­Fernando,” she said.

“I have always understood,” I replied, “that your friend was an only son.”

I had expected an outcry of horror; if she had uttered it I could have forgiven her anything.  But I heard, instead, an incredulous exclamation:  my statement was really too preposterous!  I saw that her mind had flashed back to our last talk, and that she charged me with something too nearly true to be endurable.

“My brother’s letter?  Given to the prison warder by Fernando Briga?  My dear Captain Alingdon—­on what authority do you expect me to believe such a tale?”

Her incredulity had in it an evident implication of bad faith, and I was stung to a quick reply.

“If you will turn over the letter you will see.”

She continued to gaze at me a moment:  then she obeyed.  I don’t think I ever admired her more than I did then.  As she read the name a tremor crossed her face; and that was all.  Her mind must have reached out instantly to the farthest consequences of the discovery, but the long habit of self-command enabled her to steady her muscles at once.  If I had not been on the alert I should have seen no hint of emotion.

For a while she looked fixedly at the back of the letter; then she raised her eyes to mine.