“I was determined,” said Sir Ronald, “to solve the mystery, to know who had taken my letter and who had written that false missive. No one ever knew the pains I took over it, the enormous expense! But I would have spent the last shilling I have in the world rather than have failed. For many long months I had detectives employed secretly, but the mystery seemed so great they could not fathom it. At last I heard it, as I have said, through Mary Thorne, who had been Clarice’s maid. She told me this story: On the day of that visit to Thringston, she was sitting helping in some work in Lady Hermione’s room, when she saw her mistress start in, and after looking earnestly at the address of the letter, put it in the pocket of her dress and go out of the room quietly as she entered it. In half an hour she returned and placed an envelope there so exactly similar no one could tell them apart. That little circumstance struck Mary Thorne as being very peculiar. Most maids make themselves mistresses of their mistress’ secrets. Mary knew that of poor Clarice. She knew that Clarice loved me. She knew, also, in common with the rest of the world, that I loved Lady Hermione. Most things, even our nearest and dearest secrets that we hesitate almost in telling each other, are known and discussed in the servants’ hall. There is no doubt that all this had been told there. “So Mary Thorne watched her young mistress. It is not pleasant to have to write of the treachery of those we have trusted. Clarice trusted this girl implicitly, and she, in return, betrayed her, read her letters, watched all she did, and made herself mistress even of the poor lady’s hidden faults. Clarice stole my letter--the one I had written to you--stole it, read it, and destroyed it by tearing it into minute pieces. These pieces, Mary Thorne, with infinite patience and perseverance worthy of a better cause, put together, and managed to read sufficient of it to know that it was an offer of marriage from me to my dearest Hermione. “When she told me, my first impulse was to raise my hand and slay. One moment’s reflection showed me that it was, after all, the fault of her class--that want of honor, that morbid desire to pry into the secrets of others, all come from the loose, imperfect method of training.