"Ootacamund?" repeated Mr. North, struck with the name. "Ootacamund was where my wife's first husband died; Major Bohun." "No, he did not die there," quietly rejoined Mrs. Cumberland. "Was it not there? Ah! well, it does not matter. One is apt to confuse these foreign names and places in the memory." Mrs. Cumberland made no rejoinder, and a momentary silence ensued. Madam, who with the mention of the place, Ootacamund, bit her lip almost to bleeding, bent forward, and looked through the opening of the door. She could just see the smallest portion of the cold, calm, grey face, and waited in sickening apprehension of what the next words might be. They came from Mrs. Cumberland and proved an intense relief, for the subject was changed for another. "I am about to make a request to you, John: I hope you will grant it for our old friendship's sake. Let me see the anonymous letter that proved so fatal to Edmund. Every incident connected with this calamity is to me so full of painful interest!" she continued, as if seeking to apologize for her request. "As I lay awake last night, unable to sleep, it came into my mind that I would ask you to let me see the letter." "You may see it, and welcome," was Mr. North's ready reply, as he unlocked a drawer in his old secretaire, and handed the paper to her. "I only wish I could show it to some purpose--to someone who would recognize the handwriting. You won't do that." Mrs. Cumberland answered by a sickly smile. Her hands trembled as she took the letter, and Mr. North noticed how white her lips had become--as if with some inward suspense or emotion. She studied the letter well, reading it three times over; looking at it critically in all lights. Madam in the closet could have struck her for her inquisitive curiosity. "You are right, John," she said, with an unmistakable sigh of relief as she gave the missive back to him; "I certainly do not recognize that handwriting. It is like no one's that I ever saw." "It is a disguised hand, you see," he answered. "No doubt about that: and accomplished in the cleverest manner." "Is it true that poor Edmund had been drawing bills in conjunction with Alexander?" "Only one. He had drawn a good many I'm afraid during his short lifetime in conjunction with other people, but only one with Alexander--which they got renewed. No blame attaches to Alexander; not a scrap of it." "Oliver told me that." "Ay. I have a notion that poor Edmund did not get into this trouble for his own sake, but to help that young scamp, his brother." "Which brother?" "Which brother!" echoed Mr. North, rather in mockery. "As if you need ask that. There's only one of them who could deserve the epithet, and that's Sidney. An awful scamp. He is but twenty years of age, and he is as deep in the ways of a bad world as though he were forty." "I am very sorry to hear you say it. Whispers go abroad about him, as I dare say you know, but I would rather not have heard them confirmed by you."