With a sense of alarm Herring became aware that Joyce had put into his hands more destinies than her own. Mirelle’s future was contained in a little casket of which the lock was broken, and which was placed at his unchallenged disposal. The fortune that had been confided to the trustee under the will was certain to be engulfed as the ship that strikes the Goodwins. Here, however, was the bulk of her property, providentially saved from the grip of Tramplara, and lodged in honest hands. What was he to do with this? Was he justified in retaining it till Mirelle should need it, and then delivering it to her untouched, or was he bound to deliver it to him who was constituted legal trustee by the will of her father? The conflict stood between moral and legal obligation. It was a question whether, if he acted in accordance with legal obligation, he would not be morally guilty were Mirelle’s entire fortune made away with. A week or two ago, had the question been proposed, If you find a guinea, should you return it immediately to the owner or keep it till you think the owner needs it? Herring would have been ready with an answer that cost him little consideration. Now he was not sure that the ready answer was the right answer. Life is not a simple matter; it is a veritable problem. The problem of life is the Pons Asinorum. He met Cicely at the gate of West Wyke. She was looking distressed, and she touched his arm. ’I want a word with you. Look here.’ She held out a letter. ’I have ventured to open it. The letter is addressed to my father, but as it has the Launceston postmark, and I knew the handwriting to be that of Mr. Tramplara, I did not show it to my father. I opened it. Was I right? I feared it might contain something to distress him, and I found the contents more distasteful than I had anticipated. I was right, was I not, to open the letter?’ A week ago, if asked, Is any one justified in opening another person’s letter? Herring would have answered in the negative. But now, all the cut and dried precepts of morality he had learned began to fail him. They did for copybook slips, not for rules of life. ’You have something in your hand, Mr. Herring,’ said Miss Battishill, observing the iron box. ’Is that yours?’ He hesitated. Is it justifiable ever to tell a lie? Is it justifiable to evade the truth, and so deceive? He had no doubts on this head a week ago. He doubted now, and did evade giving a direct answer. ’The box is broken, and I am going to have the lock mended.’ ’But, Mr. Herring, you have just come from the Cobbledicks.’ ’Yes,’ he answered, and then hesitated. He was unaccustomed to fence with the truth. ’When the accident took place, the box was lost somehow, and Joyce has found and restored it me.’ ’I hope you have lost nothing of value from it.’ ’I have lost nothing from it,’ he replied. ’But never mind the box now, Miss Battishill. Tell me what it is that now occasions you trouble.’