"I gather that they have drawn one; perhaps two, Edmund's passion was so fierce that I could not question him. What I don't like is, Alexander's going off in the manner he did, without seeing me: it makes me think that perhaps he did write the letter. An innocent man would have remained to defend himself. It might have been written from a good motive, after all, Oliver! My poor son!--if he had only taken it quietly!" Mr. North wrung his hands. His tones were feeble, meekly complaining; his manner and bearing were altogether those of a man who has been constantly put down and no longer attempts to struggle against the cares and crosses of the world, or the will of those about him. "I must be going," said Oliver Rane, arousing himself from a reverie. "I have to see a poor man at Dallory." "Is it Ketler?" "Yes, sir. Goodnight. I trust you will have reason to be in better spirits in the morning." "Goodnight, Oliver." But the doctor could not get off at once. He was waylaid by a servant, who said madam wished to see him. Crossing the hall, the man threw open the doors of the drawing-room, a magnificent apartment. Gilded and gleaming mirrors; light blue satin curtains and furniture; a carpet softer and thicker than moss: and all kinds of bright and resplendent things were there. "Dr. Rane, madam." Mrs. North sat on a couch by the fire. In the house she was called Madam--out of the house, too, for that matter. A severely handsome woman, with a cold, pale, imperious face, the glittering jewels in her black hair looking as hard as she did. A _cruel_ face, as some might have deemed it. When Mr. North married her, she was the widow of Major Bohun, and had one son. Underneath the chandelier, reading by its light, sat her daughter, a young lady whose face bore a strong resemblance to hers. This daughter and a son had been born since her second marriage. "You wished to see me, Mrs. North?" Dr. Rane so spoke because they took no manner of notice of him. Mrs. North turned then, with her dark, inscrutable eyes; eyes that Oliver Rane hated, as he hated the cruelty glittering in their depths, He believed her to be a woman unscrupulously selfish. She did not rise; merely motioned him to a seat with a haughty wave of her white arm: and the bracelets shone on it, and her ruby velvet dress gleamed with amazing richness. He sat down with perfect self-possession, every whit as independent as herself. "You have seen this infamous letter, I presume, Dr. Rane?" "I have." "Who sent it?" "I cannot tell you, Mrs. North." "Have you no idea at all?" "Certainly not. How should I have?" "Could you detect no resemblance in the writing to any one's you know?" He shook his head. "Not to--for instance--Alexander's?" she resumed, looking at him steadfastly. But Dr. Rane saw with a sure instinct that Alexander's was not the name she had meant to speak. "I feel sure that Mr. Alexander no more wrote the letter than--than you did, Mrs. North."