‘Keene’s writing, eh?’ said Mutimer thoughtfully. ‘Yes, he gave me the paper.’ Richard rekindled his cigar with deliberation, and stood for a few moments with one foot on the fender. ‘Who is the woman?’ he then asked. ‘I don’t know her name. Of course it’s the same story continued.’ ‘And concluded.’ ‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ said the other, smiling and shaking his head. ‘This may or may not be true, I suppose,’ was Richard’s next remark. ‘Oh, I suppose the man hears all that kind of thing. I don’t see any reason to doubt it.’ ‘May I keep the paper?’ ‘Oh, yes. Keene told me, by-the-by, that he gave a copy to young Waltham.’ Mr. Rodman spoke whilst rolling the cigar in his mouth. Mutimer allowed the subject to lapse. There was no impossibility, no improbability even, in the statement made by the newspaper correspondent; yet as Richard thought it over in the night, he could not but regard it as singular that Mr. Keene should be the man to make public such a piece of information so very opportunely. He was far from having admitted the man to his confidence, but between Keene and Rodman, as he was aware, an intimacy had sprung up. It might be that one or the other had thought it worth while to serve him; why should Keene be particular to put a copy of the paper into Alfred Waltham’s hands? Well, he personally knew nothing of the affair. If the news effected anything, so much the better. He hoped it might be trustworthy. Among his correspondence in the morning was a letter from Emma Vine. He opened it last; anyone observing him would have seen with what reluctance he began to read it. ‘My dear Richard,’ it ran, ‘I write to thank you for the money. I would very much rather have had a letter from you, however short a one. It seems long since you wrote a real letter, and I can’t think how long since I have seen you. But I know how full of business you are, dear, and I’m sure you would never come to London without telling me, because if you hadn’t time to come here, I should be only too glad to go to Highbury, if only for one word. We have got some mourning dresses to make for the servants of a lady in Islington, so that is good news. But poor Jane is very bad indeed. She suffers a great deal of pain, and most of all at night, so that she scarcely ever gets more than half-an-hour of sleep at a time, if that. What makes it worse, dear Richard, is that she is so very unhappy. Sometimes she cries nearly through the whole night. I try my best to keep her up, but I’m afraid her weakness has much to do with it. But Kate is very well, I am glad to say, and the children are very well too. Bertie is beginning to learn to read. He often says he would like to see you. Thank you, dearest, for the money and all your kindness, and believe that I shall think of you every minute with much love. From yours ever and ever, ‘EMMA VINE.’