I sat down again, panting for breath. What was coming next? I began to wonder vaguely how much I could bear, and yet continue to live on? "I am doing you a cruel kindness, Mrs. Hepburne," went on Greystock, still with that burning light in his eyes; "but you must know all; at any cost the veil must be torn from your sight. Did not yesterday's experience prepare you in some degree for what was coming?" That hand of ice was now tightening its grasp on my heart so that I could scarcely breathe. My lips moved; but no sound came from them. He had taken a paper from his breast and was slowly unfolding it, keeping his gaze fixed on me all the while. And then, after a pause, he held it out to me, and asked me to read its contents. I took it mechanically from his hand, but the lines swam before my eyes; yet I retained sense enough to understand the words that he was saying. "That letter was dropped by Ronald in my office to-day. I did not find it till he was gone. It was without an envelope, and I picked it up and unfolded it, not knowing what it was. After I had read it, I decided to give it to you instead of returning it to your husband." Gradually the mist had cleared away from my sight, and I could read the brief note that I was holding in my cold fingers. It was written in a woman's hand; large and clear, and ran as follows: "GROSVENOR STREET "Thursday Night. "DEAREST RONALD— "I have almost determined, after seeing you to-day, to risk everything for your sake. It will be a terrible thing to brave my uncle's anger, and the sneers of all my relations, but it will be easier than living without you. Let us meet to-morrow, if possible, and then we can talk the matter over once more. Good-night, dearest. "Your loving "IDA." "To risk everything for your sake!" She loved him—that cold, golden-haired woman loved him well enough to endure the scorn of the world! I could see all things now in a new light. He had married in a fit of hopelessness or pique, and they had tried to forget each other. But the separation could not be borne any longer: they had met and tasted the old sweetness of their love again. Yes; William Greystock lied divined the truth. Ronald meant to leave me; he would not resist the temptation. Life without Ida Lorimer was not worth having; he had grown utterly weary of the poor little delicate wife who fretted him with her low spirits and constant anxiety about bills. What was to be done? How was I—a heart-broken, deserted woman—to face life? Still grasping the letter in my icy hand, I gazed blankly at the man who had brought it to me. At that moment my old distrust and dislike of William Greystock were quite forgotten.