We yield to this lady our fullest admiration for the courageous course she has pursued. She has not studied her own feelings; she has laid bare a story of domestic trouble and treachery as strange as the most ingenious drama on the French stage could present--such a story as Sardou or Octave Feulliet would revel in; and, without hesitation, she has thrown aside all reserve, in the light of the great duty which is before her, the duty of doing everything in her power to hunt the murderer down, and avenge her husband's death. It is not many who would have the moral courage thus to expose their wounds to public gaze, and we are satisfied that our narrative will have the effect of causing a wide and general sympathy to be expressed for this most unfortunate lady. We now come to other considerations of the affair. The gentleman who was murdered was a gentleman of wealth and position in society. He loved his wife; between them there had never been the slightest difference; they were in complete accord in their views of the conduct of the unhappy young man at whose door, indirectly, the primary guilt of the tragedy may be laid. The reason why Mr. Holdfast did not write to his wife for so long a period is partly explained by the account he gives, in his last letter to her, of the injury he received in his right hand. We say partly, because, a little further on, our readers will perceive that this reason will not hold good up to the day of his death. Most positively it may be accepted that the deepest and strongest motives existed for his endeavour to keep the circumstance of his being in London from the knowledge of his wife. Could these motives be discovered--could any light be thrown upon them--a distinct point would be established from which the murderer might be tracked. Our Reporter put several questions to Mrs. Holdfast. "Is it an absolute certainty that Frederick Holdfast is dead?" he asked. She gazed at him in wonderment. "Who can doubt it?" she exclaimed. "There is my husband's letter, saying he had traced his son to Minnesota, and was journeying after him. There is the account in the newspaper of the death of the misguided young man in a small town in Minnesota. The editor of the newspaper, knowing nothing whatever of any of us, could scarcely have invented such a paragraph--though we know they _do_ put strange things in the American papers; but this, unhappily, is too near the truth." "Certainly," said our Reporter, "the presumption would be a wild one--but it is possible; and I seldom shut my mind to a possibility." Mrs. Holdfast was very agitated. "It is _not_ possible--it is _not_ possible!" she cried, repeating the asseveration with vehemence. "It would be too horrible to contemplate!" "What would be too horrible to contemplate?" "That he followed his father to London"---- She paused, overcome by emotion. Our Reporter took up the cue. "And murdered him?" he asked.