There was, of course, no clue to the identity of the writer, the ingenious author of this very plain-spoken epistle had seen to that. The envelope was one of a common make and pattern, it bore a certain City postmark, like thousands of other letters posted at the same time in the same neighbourhood; the paper was a sheet torn from one of the thousands of letter-pads in common use. It did not even possess the slight clue of a water-mark. Morrice thought that even the astute Lane himself would never be able to trace it to its sender, if he were to take it to him. But, of course, he had no intention of doing this. He was a very reticent man in all things appertaining to his private affairs, and a slur cast upon the woman who bore his name was an affront to himself. It is possible that in ordinary circumstances he would have dismissed the matter from his mind, deeming it the work of some hidden enemy who, in his desire to annoy him, had chosen this way of wounding him in his tenderest relations; for if he was not deeply in love with his wife, as he had been with Richard Croxton’s mother, he was fond of her in a calm, steadfast way, he was proud of her social qualities, he was grateful to her for her ready obedience to all his wishes. But recent events had rendered him very distrustful and suspicious; and the wording of the letter was very positive. One of the sentences in it was strangely significant: “I have reason to know that Mrs. Morrice has for a long time past been spending large sums of money in a certain direction.” He was advised to examine the costly jewels he had given her with a view to seeing that they had not been tampered with. It would seem, assuming that there was any truth in the innuendos it contained, that it must be written by somebody who had an intimate knowledge of Mrs. Morrice. For a moment it flashed across him that from motives of revenge Richard Croxton had written it to stir up strife between the husband and wife. It could not be Rosabelle, she was too fond of her aunt, and besides, if she wanted to do her an injury, he was certain the girl was too high-minded to make use of such a shameful weapon as an anonymous letter. Probably it might have come from a discharged servant who chose this method of wreaking his or her spite. But Morrice could not remember that any servant had been discharged for several years past. It was such a comfortable service that those who entered it stayed till natural circumstances brought about a severance of the relations. Ought he not to show it to his wife, and accept the denial of the accusation which she would be sure to make? Had he not been rendered doubting and embittered by these recent happenings, that is just what he would have done. But the discovery of Richard Croxton’s unworthiness, for he still believed in his guilt, in spite of the doubting attitude of Lane, had rendered him morbidly suspicious of everybody, with perhaps the single exception of Rosabelle.