It had grown without her knowledge, apart from her will, this conception of Piers Otway.  The first half-consciousness of such a thought came to her when she heard from Olga of those letters, obtained by him for a price, and given to the kinsfolk of the dead woman.  An interested generosity?  She had repelled the suggestion as unworthy, ignoble.  Whether the giver was ever thanked, she did not know.  Dr. Derwent kept cold silence on the subject, after once mentioning it to her in formal words.  Thanks, undoubtedly, were due to him.  To-night it pained her keenly to think that perhaps her father had said nothing.

She began to study Russian, and in secret; her impulse dark, or so obscurely hinted that it caused her no more than a moment’s reverie.  Looking back, she saw but one explanation of the energy, the zeal which had carried her through these labours.  It shone clear on the day when a letter from Helen Borisoff told her that an article in a Russian review, just published, bore the name of Piers Otway.  Thence onward, she was frank with herself.  She recognised the meaning of the intellectual process which had tended to harmonise her life with that she imagined for her ideal man.  There came a prompting of emotion, and she wrote the letter which Piers received.

All things were made new to her; above all, her own self.  She was acting in a way which was no result of balanced purpose, yet, as she perfectly understood, involved her in the gravest responsibilities.  She had no longer the excuse which palliated her conduct eight years ago; that heedlessness was innocent indeed compared with the blame she would now incur, if she excited a vain hope merely to prove her feelings, to read another chapter of life.  Solemnly in this charmed stillness of midnight, she searched her heart.  It did not fail under question.

A morning sleep held her so much later than usual that, before she had left her chamber, letters were brought to the door by the child who waited upon her.  On one envelope she saw the Doctor’s handwriting; on the other that of her cousin, Mrs. Florio.  Surprised to hear from Olga, with whom she had had very little communication for a year or two, she opened that letter first.

“Dear Irene,” it began, “something has lately come to my knowledge which I think I am only doing a duty in acquainting you with.  It is very unpleasant, but not the first unpleasant piece of news that you and I have shared together.  You remember all about Piers Otway and those letters of my poor mother’s, which he said he bought for us from his horrid brother?  Well, I find that he did not buy them—­ at all events that he never paid for them.  Daniel Otway is now broken-down in health, and depends on help from the other brother, Alexander, who has gone in for some sort of music-hall business!  Not only did Piers cheat him out of the money promised for the letters (I fear there’s no other word for it), but he has utterly refused to give the man