“Charmian.”

The letter fell from my fingers, and I remained staring before me so long that Sir Richard came and laid his hand on my shoulder.

“Oh, boy!” said he, very tenderly; “she has told me all the story, and I think, Peter, I think it is given to very few men to win the love of such a woman as this.”

“God knows it!” said I.

“And to have married one so very noble and high in all things —­you should be very proud, Peter.”

“I am,” said I; “oh, I am, sir.”

“Even, Peter—­even though she be a—­virago, this Lady Sophia—­or a termagant—­”

“I was a great fool in those days,” said I, hanging my head, “and very young!”

“It was only six months ago, Peter.”

“But I am years older today, sir.”

“And the husband of the most glorious woman—­the most—­oh, curse me, Peter, if you deserve such a goddess!”

“And—­she worked for me!” said I; “cooked and served and mended my clothes—­where are they?” I cried, and sprang out of bed.

“What the deuce—­“began Sir Richard.

“My clothes,” said I, looking vainly about; “my clothes—­pray, Sir Richard, where are they?”

“Burnt, Peter.”

“Burnt?”

“Every blood-stained rag!” he nodded; “her orders.”

“But—­what am I to do?”

Sir Richard laughed, and, crossing to the press, opened the door.

“Here are all the things you left behind you when you set out to—­dig, and—­egad!—­make your fortune.  I couldn’t let ’em go with all the rest—­so I—­er—­had ’em brought here, to—­er—­to keep them for you—­ready for the time when you should grow tired of digging, and come back to me, and—­er—­oh, dammit!—­you understand—­and Grainger’s waiting to see you in the library —­been there hours—­so dress yourself.  In Heaven’s name, dress yourself!” he cried, and hurried from the room.

It was with a certain satisfaction that I once more donned buckskin and spurred boots, and noticed moreover how tight my coat was become across the shoulders; yet I dressed hastily, for my mind was already on the road, galloping to Charmian.

In the library I found Sir Richard, and Mr. Grainger, who greeted me with his precise little bow.

“I have to congratulate you, Sir Peter,” he began, “not only on your distinguished marriage, and accession to fortune, but upon the fact that the—­ah—­unpleasantness connecting a certain Peter Smith with your unfortunate cousin’s late decease has been entirely removed by means of the murderer’s written confession, placed in my hands some days ago by the Lady Sophia.”

“A written confession—­and she brought it to you?”

“Galloped all the way from Tonbridge, by Gad!” nodded Sir Richard.

“It seems,” pursued Mr. Grainger, “that the—­ah man, John Strickland, by name, lodged with a certain preacher, to whom, in Lady Vibart’s presence, he confessed his crime, and willingly wrote out a deposition to that effect.  It also appears that the man, sick though he was, wandered from the Preacher’s cottage, and was eventually found upon the road, and now lies in Maidstone gaol, in a dying condition.”