“I feel quite overcome――completely prostrated. Can it be? Is it possible? Or is it all deception?” “Never you mind, we shall soon be able to ascertain all about this wondrous gift presented to us――or rather to you――by Dame Fortune. I tell you there are notes for thousands, and you are rich――immensely rich.” “I find it hard to believe.” “No matter, you will soon believe it.” “But where, in the name of all that’s wonderful, can all these riches have come from?” said Mrs. Bristow, passing her hand across her aching forehead. “Will you leave the matter in my hands?” “Of course I will.” “Very well then, so be it. There is a mystery about this affair which neither of us for the present can fathom――that we may take for granted; but the property belongs to you, and for the present I will take charge of it.” “Ah! do so. You are much more quick-witted and clever than I am, and I need hardly say I would trust you with my life.” Bessie Dalton folded up the notes, flew upstairs again to her own room, and returned with a pocket-book. In this she carefully placed the notes, and then thrust the pocket-book in her bosom. “So,” she ejaculated, “they are safe for the present――safe until we can learn something more about them and their real value. Now, are you ready to leave?” “Yes; but――ahem――I――” “Well, what?” “Hadn’t I better write a letter to John, bidding him farewell for ever?” Bessie shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “It’s more than he deserves,” she said, “but as you wish it, do so.” CHAPTER XIV. THE FLIGHT――A CONFIDENTIAL FRIEND――THE ROLL OF NOTES. Mrs. Bristow had screwed her courage up as best she could, but now that the time had arrived for her to leave her home she felt a pang shoot through her heart. She pictured to herself her husband’s return home after his debauch, his awakening in the morning, and his bitter remorse. Dissolute, debased, and worthless fellow as he was, his ill-used and miserable wife had some compassion left for him, some latent love of which she found it difficult to dispossess herself. This is almost invariably the case with ruffians of this class. We are furnished with numberless instances of this in the reports of assaults upon women heard in our public police-courts. The injured woman almost always finds some excuse for her brutal husband, and it is likely enough that Mrs. Bristow would never have left her home, however badly she had been treated, had it not been through the instigation and by the advice of her friend Bessie Dalton. Mrs. Bristow had seated herself in front of a little table――pens, ink and paper were before her, the last-named being already blotted by her tears. “What shall I say to him, Bessie?” enquired the wife of her friend. “How should I know? If it were my case I would not trouble myself to write. Wish him good-bye and say you are going abroad, that’s the best thing to do.” “Abroad?”