Colonel Ogilvie seemed to have lost himself in his task, and expressed his comments on what he read by a series of childlike movements and ejaculations. Athlyne who knew what the letter contained could apply these enlightening comments, and even Joy in her ignorance of detail could inferentially follow the text. Colonel Ogilvie did say a word of definite speech, but the general tendency of his comment was that of surprise--astonishment. When he had finished reading Athlyne’s letter--it was the last of the batch--he sat for quite half a minute quite still and silent, holding the paper between finger and thumb of his dropped left hand. Then with a deep frown on his forehead he began to read it again. He was evidently looking for some passage, for when he had found it he stood up at once and turned to them. By this time Joy, warned by the movement, had dropped her lover’s hand and now stood some distance away from him. The old man began: “Sir … There is a passage in a letter here which I understand to be yours. So far I must acknowledge that I have been wrong. You evidently _did_ send the letter, and I evidently received it. Listen to this: ‘Having heard in a roundabout way that there was a woman in New York who was passing herself off as my wife I undertook a journey to that City to make investigation into the matter; and in order to secure the necessary secrecy as to my movements took for the time an assumed name--or rather used as Christian and surname two of those names in the middle of my full equipment which I do not commonly use.’ What does all that mean? No, do not speak. Wait and I shall tell you. You say the lady--woman you call her--took your name. For saying such a thing, and for the disrespect in her description as a woman, you will have to answer me. Either of them will cost you your life.” Athlyne answered with a quiet, impressive dignity which helped in some degree to reassure Joy who stood motionless in open-eyed wonder--her heart seeming to her as cold as ice at the horror of this new phase of danger. It was a veritable “bolt from the blue,” incomprehensible to her in every way: “Colonel Ogilvie, I regret I shall be unable to meet your wishes in this respect!” As the old man looked astonished in his turn, he proceeded: “I already owe you a life on another count; and I have but one. But if I had ten you should have them all, could they in any way assuage the sorrow which it seems must follow from my thoughtless act. I have told you already that I shall freely give my life in expiation of the wrong I have--all unintentionally--done to your daughter and yourself. And if any means could be found by which it could add to Joy’s happiness or lessen her sorrow I should in addition and as freely give my soul!”