Yet no idea of a tardy repentance, a confession at the eleventh hour, entered her fevered mind, as she drew that terrible letter out of the folds of her habit. She had fought her own battles; she would fight them once more, and then die, if she must, in the odor of sanctity. She thrust away the thought that this strange horror at her heart was the beginning of repentance. Almost she felt her own strong self again, as she deliberately opened and reread the letter that had shaken her nerve till she cried out. Yet it was only a civil, well-meaning letter from one woman to another. “Mrs. Fuller presents her compliments to the superioress of St. Mary’s Convent, and begs to inform her that she knows nothing of the missing pupil of that institution who was supposed to be traveling on the Continent in her care. Mrs. Fuller was both surprised and horrified to find that unscrupulous persons had made use of her name to deceive the matron and guardians of St. Anne’s Workhouse. The unknown woman who carried off the girl under Mrs. Fuller’s name must have been fully cognizant of her movements, as she had certainly spent the winter abroad with an invalid niece. Mrs. Fuller begged to assure the superioress of her deep sympathy in her anxiety for the young girl who was lost, and also to inform her that she had set a detective to work to trace out the wretches who have made so wicked and cruel a use of her name. As yet no clue had been found to their identity.” A second note was enclosed in another hand, and it was this that had brought the reverend mother low, though it was but a rather disconcerted epistle from a well-known detective to his employer, regretting that so far he had discovered nothing. “I may mention as a curious coincidence,” ran that paragraph that had wrung a cry from the wretched woman, “that if the missing girl’s name is really Beryl Corselas, her discovery is a matter of importance, as it may throw light on an unexplained case of murder and abduction which puzzled the whole force years ago, and, incidentally, may deprive a certain noble family of their estates. But that, of course, is between you and me.” It struck Mother Felicitas that the detective’s letter was not especially businesslike; but it would have put fresh terror in her soul had she known why. The man was under a deep obligation to Mrs. Fuller, had thorough trust--this time misplaced--in her discretion, and was ready to turn the world upside down to find out the person who had dared to take such liberties with her name. But as it was, Mother Felicitas had read enough. She thought of that note written to the guardians in which she had said that it was on her authority Mrs. Fuller had taken the girl from the workhouse. “I can explain that if I am obliged to,” she thought heavily. “My lawyer will bear me out that I sent him to make inquiries,” but her brain went swiftly as she wondered if the workhouse authorities had that letter--or Erceldonne.