‘We get a clearer glimpse of the story in this,’ said Lucius, as he finished the fourth letter. ‘It seems easy enough now to read the riddle. A young man, with large expectations from an uncle who, at any moment, may disinherit him, has secretly married; perhaps a woman beneath him in station. At any rate, his choice is one which his uncle would inevitably disapprove. He hides his young wife in some quiet Devonshire village, where his friend, your son, visits him. There, during your son’s visit, the old man appears. By some means or other he has tracked his nephew to this retreat. One mode of escape only suggests itself. Ferdinand Sivewright assumes the character of the husband and father, while the delinquent leaves the place at his uncle’s desire, and accompanies him back to London. Out of this incident arises the rest. Ferdinand Sivewright takes charge of the child, the wife retires to her native country, where she has, no doubt, friends who can give her a home. The whole business is thus, as it were, dissolved. The husband is free to play the part of a bachelor till his kinsman’s death. That is my reading of the story.’ ‘I do not think you can be far out,’ answered Mr. Sivewright. ‘You can look over the rest of the letters at your leisure. They are less important than those you have read, but may contain some stray scraps of information which you can piece together. There is one letter in which Madame Dumarques speaks of the miniature. She sends it in order that the little girl may learn to know her mother’s features; and in this, as in other letters from this lady, there appears a foreboding of early death. “We may never meet on earth,” she writes. “I like to think that she will know my face if ever I am so blest as to meet her in heaven.”’ ‘You think, then, that this poor mother died young?’ inquired Lucius. ‘That is my idea. The husband speaks of her failing health in one of his letters. He has been to Rouen to see her, and has found her sadly changed. “You would hardly know that lovely face, Sivewright, could you see it now,” he writes.’ Lucius folded and tied up the letters with a careful hand. ‘May I have these to keep?’ he asked. ‘You may. They are the only dower which your wife will receive from her parents.’ ‘I don’t know that,’ answered Lucius; ‘her father may still live, and if he does, he shall at least give her his name.’ ‘What, you mean to seek out this nameless father?’ ‘I do. The task may be long and difficult, but I am determined to unravel this tangled skein.’ ‘Do what you like, so long as you and Lucille do not leave me to die alone,’ said the old man sadly. ‘Have no fear of that,’ replied Lucius. ‘This investigation can wait. I will not desert my post in your sick room, until you are on the highroad to recovery.’ ‘You are a good fellow!’ exclaimed Mr. Sivewright, with unusual warmth; ‘and I do not regret having trusted you.’ CHAPTER X. MYSTIC MUSIC.