‘I was on the road at the first streak of dawn,’ exclaimed Mr. Harefield. ‘I never had that letter. How do I know that it is not all a lie? How do I know that you have not come here with a deep-laid plot to cheat and cajole me? I have lived all these years believing my wife false, accursed, abominable, a woman whose very existence was a disgrace to me and to her child. And you come now with this fable about a convent--a sudden flight from an intolerable life--ay, it was bitter enough in those last days, I confess--a pure and spotless life, cloistered, unknown. She is living still, I suppose--a professed nun--hiding that calm face under the shadow of a sable hood?’ ‘She died within a year of her entrance into the convent, died, as she had lived, a guest, receiving protection and hospitality from the sisterhood, among them but not one of them. As your wife the church could not have received her. The nuns loved her for her gentleness, her piety, and her sorrow. I have come from her grave. Till within the last few months I have been a wanderer on the face of my country--every thought of my brain, every desire of my heart given to the cause of Italian independence. Only last week I found myself again a traveller on the mountain road between Urbino and Perugia, and master of my time. I went to visit the grave of her I had last seen a sorrowful fugitive from a husband whose very love had been so mixed with bitterness that it had resulted in mutual misery. The fact that you had never visited the convent, or communicated in any way with the nuns during all these years made me suspect some misunderstanding--and in justice to her whom I loved when life was young and full of fair hopes--and whose memory I love and honour now my hair is gray, I am here to tell you that your wife died worthy of your regret, that it is you who have need of pardon--not she.’ ‘And I am to take your word for this?’ ‘No, I knew too well your hatred and distrust to come to you without some confirmation of my story. At my request, knowing all the circumstances of the case, the Reverend Mother drew up a full account of your wife’s reception at the convent, her last illness, and her death, which came unexpectedly though she had long been ill. My chief purpose in coming to England was to give you this paper.’ He laid a large sealed envelope upon the table before Mr. Harefield. ‘Having done this, my mission is ended. I have no more to say.’ The Italian bowed gravely, and left the room, Mr. Harefield mechanically ringing the bell for the butler to show him out. The door closed upon the departing guest, and Christian Harefield stood looking straight before him with fixed eyes--looking into empty air and seeing--what? A pale pained face, white to the lips, framed in darkest hair, dark eyes gazing at him with a strained agonized gaze--hands clasped in a convulsion of grief and anger. He heard a voice half choked with sobs.