“Writing?” exclaimed Harley. “Letters?” “I don’t know what she has been writing,” confessed Val Beverley. “She declines to tell me, or to show me what she has written. But there is quite a little stack of manuscript upon the table beside her bed. Won’t you come in?” I could see that she was more troubled than she cared to confess, and I wondered if Dr. Rolleston’s unpleasant suspicions might have solid foundation, and if the loss of her cousin had affected Madame de Stämer’s brain. Presently, then, ushered by Val Beverley, I found myself once more in the violet and silver room in which on that great bed of state Madame reclined amid silken pillows. Her art never deserted her, not even in moments of ultimate stress, and that she had prepared herself for this interview was evident enough. I had thought previously that one night of horror had added five years to her apparent age. I thought now that she looked radiantly beautiful. That expression in her eyes, which I knew I must forevermore associate with the memory of the dying tigress, had faded entirely. They remained still, as of old, but to-night they were velvety soft. The lips were relaxed in a smile of tenderness. I observed, with surprise, that she wore much jewelery, and upon her white bosom gleamed the famous rope of pearls which I knew her to treasure above almost anything in her possession. Again the fear touched me coldly that much sorrow had made her mad. But at her very first word of greeting I was immediately reassured. “Ah, my friend,” she said, as I entered, a caressing note in her deep, vibrant voice, “you have great news, they tell me? Mr. Harley, I was afraid that you had deserted me, sir. If you had done so I should have been very angry with you. Set the two armchairs here on my right, Val, dear, and sit close beside me.” Then, as we seated ourselves: “You are not smoking, my friends,” she continued, “and I know that you are both so fond of a smoke.” Paul Harley excused himself but I accepted a cigarette which Val Beverley offered me from a silver box on the table, and presently: “I am here, like a prisoner of the Bastille,” declared Madame, shrugging her shoulders, “where only echoes reach me. Now, Mr. Harley, tell me of this wonderful discovery of yours.” Harley inclined his head gravely, and in that succinct fashion which he had at command acquainted Madame with the result of his two experiments. As he completed the account: “Ah,” she sighed, and lay back upon her pillows, “so to-night he is again a free man, the poor Colin Camber. And his wife is happy once more?” “Thank God,” I murmured. “Her sorrow was pathetic.” “Only the pure in heart can thank God,” said Madame, strangely, “but I, too, am glad. I have written, here”--she pointed to a little heap of violet note-paper upon a table placed at the opposite side of the bed--“how glad I am.”