Our meeting was a very quiet one. He knelt down beside the sofa, and folded me gently in his arms. The silence, that lasted for some seconds, was only broken by the sweet rustle of the leaves outside the window. There was much to be said between us; but we were not, after all, in haste to begin the explanation which had been so eagerly desired by both. In truth, I believe that if that explanation had been altogether denied us, we should have taken each other "for better, for worse" again, quite contentedly, and walked side by side to our life's end. "How could you have left me, Louie?" he murmured at last. "Because I thought you did not want me any more," I answered, with my face pressed close to his. It is needless to tell what he said in reply; but I was thoroughly convinced that he did want me. There was another silence; and when he spoke again, it was in the old easy tone of authority. "Now tell me, Louie, what on earth is the mystery about that letter? How could Greystock have made you, believe that I dropped it in his office?" I produced the letter, and my husband studied it attentively for a moment or two. Still holding it in his hand, he looked at me with a puzzled expression in his eyes. "There is no doubt that Ida did really write this letter," he said, frankly. "One can't mistake her hand. I see that it is supposed to have been written on Thursday night, and, to tell you the truth, Louise, I can understand your indignation." "Then, Ronald, you will promise never to see her again! She must have lost all sense of shame when she wrote such a thing to my husband." "Wait a second, little woman. She never would have written such a thing to your husband—I am certain of that. But she might have written it to her lover in days gone by." "You were her lover, Ronald, in days gone by." "Yes; but I am sure I never received this letter. You say that Greystock gave it to you? Well, he used, sometimes, to act as our postman; can this be a note which was entrusted to him and never delivered to me?" "If you think so, Ronald," I said, struck with this new idea, "you ought to ask him to explain the whole matter. I know now that he is your enemy and mine. Do not be afraid to let him see that you distrust him." My husband waited for a moment before he spoke again. "Louie," he said at last, "you do not know that Greystock has gone beyond my reach. Don't be shocked, little woman; I must tell you an awful thing." "Has he left the country?" I asked, eagerly. "He has left the world! A few hours after you last saw him, he was found in his chambers quite dead. He died of heart disease, and his doctor proved that he had been suffering from it for a long time."