Great tears slowly dropped from Margaret's passionate eyes and washed her cheeks, her tender lip quivered with the thoughts that were swaying her heart; for a quick wild pang of grief smote her to think that he was in his grave. He had scorned her, he had trampled her under foot, and she forgave him all, and wept that he was dead. For oh, the heart of such a woman is capable of a love, which, to love of softer women, is as glowing wine to water, as the towering, scorching flame of the red volcano to the chill pale ray of the winter morn. In the afternoon of the same day, Mrs. Chetwode came into Margaret's room with the news that Mr. Davenport was below, inquiring for an immediate interview. "He do look raised, Miss Margaret," said Mrs. Chetwode; "he snaps round like an angry watch-dog." He came up to Miss Walsingham's parlor and burst in, hot, red, loud, and angry. "Ha! you have seen fit to return to your post, sir," cried Margaret, woman-like anticipating the fray. "Return, madam!" fired the lawyer. "Am I here too soon for you, madam--how long did you want me to stay?" "I did not want you to go, sir," said Margaret. "Hear her, oh, hear her!" screamed the lawyer, appealing to the cornice, "if that is not upright and downright insanity, show me a maniac in Bedlam. Madam," with grim pleasantry, "shall you banish me to the top of Mont Blanc in your next letter about a mythological Colonel Brand?" She maintained a dignified silence. "Madam, since your little scheme to get both your guardians out of the way has succeeded so well, will you do me the favor of confessing what you have done with the colonel?" "I have unmasked him, Mr. Davenport, and shown the world a murderer." "What the duse do you mean, young lady?" "He is proved an impostor, Mr. Davenport, believe me for once." "Pig-headed as ever, I see," groaned the lawyer. "Come tell me why you sent me to Bala?" in a wheedling tone. "Be calm and give your reasons frankly." "I beg your pardon, sir, but I did not send you to Bala." "Confound the woman!" shouted Davenport, "she denies everything. She is mad! she'll deny the work of her own hand next, I do believe. Why did you write me this letter, Miss Margaret Walsingham?" (snatching it from his pocket and waving it like a banner of victory before her eyes.) "Your own handwriting--your own signature, madam. Please do not shock me by denying it." She looked at the letter--her own familiar chirography started her out of countenance. Truly, Roland Mortlake's was an accommodating genius. Thus it ran: "DEAR MR. DAVENPORT:--I have just receive an extraordinary telegram from some Dr. Lythwaite in Bala, Merioneth. I inclose it to you. Does it not convince you that my suspicions have a just foundation? If you can withstand the evidence of this stranger, who has never heard of my suspicions, you are willfully shutting your eyes to a plain fact.