Herring read this paragraph over twice before he could understand it, and even then he understood it only imperfectly. But the main points flashed out. Sampson Tramplara had fallen over the rocks, and his body had been mistaken for that of himself because of the clothes he wore and the purse in his pocket. How Sampson had obtained the diamonds he was unable to divine, but he suspected that the letter alluded to was that containing his confession, which Sampson had told him he had given to Mirelle. He sat looking mutely at the paper, his mind working. ’What is it, John?’ asked Cicely; but he did not hear. Then she came to him and looked over his shoulder. ’John,’ said she, putting her hand on him and shaking him; ’John, what is the meaning of this?’ ’Cicely, it is as I said—after judgment, death. Do you see? I am a dead man.’ There was silence in the room. She was collecting her thoughts. What did this all mean? ’John,’ she exclaimed, ’what is this?—you have a wife!’ ’No—a widow.’ Then he stood up, and walked twice up and down the room, his face white as ashes, his hands behind his back, and his head bowed. Cicely followed him with her eyes; she was bewildered. ’It is best as it is,’ said he to himself. ’Mirelle is set free. John Herring is dead.’ Then the truth rushed in on Cicely’s mind. ’Oh, John, John! Was she—Mirelle, your wife?’ He looked at her. He did not answer; she saw the mute agony in his face. ’Oh, John, poor John! now I understand all! Now I know why you have been so unhappy. I am sure she never loved you.’ ’No, Cicely, she never loved me.’ ’She could love no one.’ ’You are wrong; she loved another.’ Again there was silence. Cicely’s eyes filled. Herring paced the room again. Cicely could not see him now, her eyes were too full. ’Oh, John! dear, poor John!’ ’Cicely,’ he said, standing still in the midst of his tramp, ’what has happened is best for every one. Let it be. From henceforth John Herring is dead. If you will, I am John Battishill, your brother.’ *CHAPTER LVII.* *AN ARREST.* A blustering day; the rain splashing against the windows of an inn at Plymouth. Mirelle sat in the window; there was a balcony with balustrade before it, and the water dripped incessantly from the rail upon the swimming balcony. Mirelle was in mourning; her face looked preternaturally white in her black dress. Her eyes were sunken, her lips thin and tremulous; but there were spots of almost colour in her cheeks, speaking of feverish excitement, not of health. Genefer Benoke was with her.