Olga looked at him in distressful wonder and suspense.

“Not one of them,” he pursued, “contains a line that you should not read.  They prove absolutely, beyond shadow of doubt, that the charge brought against your mother was false.  The dates cover nearly five years—­from a simple note of invitation to Ewell—­you remember —­down to a letter written about three weeks ago.  Of course I was obliged to read them through; I knew to begin with what I should find.  Now I give them to you.  Let Dr. Derwent see them.  If any doubt remains in his mind, they will make an end of it.”

He put the packet into Olga’s hands.  She, overcome for the moment by her feelings, looked from it to him, at a loss for words.  She was struck with a change in Otway.  That he should speak in a grave tone, with an air of sadness, was only natural; but the change went beyond this; he had not his wonted decision in utterance; he paused between sentences, his eyes wandering dreamily; one would have taken him for an older man than he was wont to appear, and of less energy.  Thus might he have looked and spoken after some great effort, which left him wearied, almost languid, incapable of strong emotion.

“Why didn’t he show these letters before?” she asked, turning over the sealed envelope.

“He had no wish to do so,” answered Piers, in an undertone.

“You mean that he would have let anything happen—­which he could have prevented?”

“I’m afraid he would.”

“But he offered them now?”

“No—­or rather yes, he offered them,” Piers smiled bitterly.  “Not however, out of wish to do justice.”

Olga could not understand.  She gazed at him wistfully.

“I bought them,” said Piers.  “It made the last proof of his baseness.”

“You gave money for them?  And just that you might give them to me?”

“Wouldn’t you have done the same, to clear the memory of someone you loved?”

Olga laid the packet aside; then, with a quick movement, stepped towards him, caught his hand, pressed it to her lips.  Piers was taken by surprise, and could not prevent the action; but at once Olga’s own hand was prisoned in his; they stood face to face, she blushing painfully, he pale as death, with lips that quivered in their vain effort to speak.

“I shall be grateful to you as long as I live,” the girl faltered, turning half away, trying gently to release herself.

Piers kissed her hand, again and again, still speechless.  When he allowed her to draw it away, he stood gazing at her like a man bewildered; there was moisture on his forehead; he seemed to struggle for breath.

“Let us sit down again and talk,” said Olga, glancing at him.

But he moved towards her, the strangest look in his eyes, the fixed expressionless gaze of a somnambulist.

“Olga——­”

“No, no!” she exclaimed, as if suddenly stricken with fear, throwing out her arms to repel him.  “You didn’t mean that!  It is my fault.  You never meant that.”