“Well, well, well!” Her ladyship dropped into a chair, and thumped her knees. There was lawyer’s blood in Lady Jocelyn’s veins: she had the judicial mind. A confession was to her a confession. She tracked actions up to a motive; but one who came voluntarily to confess needed no sifting. She had the habit of treating things spoken as facts. “You absolutely wrote that letter to Mrs. Evremonde’s husband!” Evan bowed, to avoid hearing his own lie. “You discovered his address and wrote to him, and imitated Mr. Laxley’s handwriting, to effect the purpose you may have had?” Her credulity did require his confirmation of it, and he repeated: “It is my deed.” “Hum! And you sent that premonitory slip of paper to her?” “To Mrs. Evremonde?” “Somebody else was the author of that, perhaps?” “It is all on me.” “In that case, Mr. Harrington, I can only say that it’s quite right you should quit this house to-morrow morning.” Her ladyship commenced rocking in her chair, and then added: “May I ask, have you madness in your family? No? Because when one can’t discern a motive, it’s natural to ascribe certain acts to madness. Had Mrs. Evremonde offended you? or Ferdinand—but one only hears of such practices towards fortunate rivals, and now you have come to undo what you did! I must admit, that taking the monstrousness of the act and the inconsequence of your proceedings together, the whole affair becomes more incomprehensible to me than it was before. Would it be unpleasant to you to favour me with explanations?” She saw the pain her question gave him, and, passing it, said: “Of course you need not be told that Rose must hear of this?” “Yes,” said Evan, “she must hear it.” “You know what that’s equivalent to? But, if you like, I will not speak to her till you have left us.” “Instantly,” cried Evan. “Now—to-night! I would not have her live a minute in a false estimate of me.”