Edgar now had enough of his own to think of, and if Frank had been less absorbed in his own trouble he might have observed with what longing eyes his friend turned every now and then towards the sheets which contained so much of Emma's history as well as her sister's. Finally he spoke: "Why does Emma remain in the house to which the father only condemned her sister?" "Because she once vowed to share that sister's fate, whatever it might be." "Her love for her sister is then greater than any other passion she may have had." "I don't know; there were other motives beside love to influence her," explained Frank, and said no more. Edgar sank again into silence. It was Frank who spoke next. "Do you think"--He paused and moistened his lips--"Have you doubted what our duty is about this matter?" "To leave the girl--you said it yourself. Have you any other idea, Frank?" "No, no; that is not what I mean," stammered Etheridge. "I mean about--about--the father's death. Should the world know? Is it a matter for the--for the police?" "No," cried Edgar, aghast. "Mr. Cavanagh evidently killed himself. It is a dreadful thing to know, but I do not see why we need make it public." Frank drew a long breath. "I feared," he said,--"I did not know but you would think my duty would lie in--in----" "Don't speak of it," exclaimed Edgar. "If you do not wish to finish reading her confession, put it up. Here is a drawer, in which you can safely lock it." Frank, recoiling from the touch of those papers which had made such a havoc with his life, motioned to Edgar to do what he would with them. "Are you not going to write--to answer this in some way?" asked Edgar. "Thank God she has not made that necessary. She wrote somewhere, in the beginning, I think, that, if I felt the terror of her words too deeply, I was to pass by her house on the other side of the street at an early hour in the morning. Did she dream that I could do anything else?" Edgar closed the drawer in which he had hidden her letter, locked it, and laid the key down on the table beside Frank. Frank did not observe the action; he had risen to his feet, and in another moment had left the room. He had reached the point of feeling the need of air and a wider space in which to breathe. As he stepped into the street, he turned in a contrary direction to that in which he had been wont to walk. Had he not done this; had he gone southward, as usual, he might have seen the sly and crouching figure which was drawn up on that side of the house, peering into the room he had just left through the narrow opening made by an imperfectly lowered shade. BOOK III. UNCLE AND NIECE. XXVI. THE WHITE POWDER.