then as carefully folded up and placed within a large drawer by his side, evidently one of some old cabinet. "Nothing," he whispered to himself. "Dalby said there was nothing--no proof; for, after all, I would not have it on my conscience to say, I _knew_ there was proof, and withheld it. 'Tis not for me to _search_ for writings or witnesses _against_ myself," this was added after a thoughtful pause. After awhile he continued, "Besides, it is scarcely probable that old Tremenhere ever married that poor Spanish girl; those girls at Gibraltar are not of very noted virtue. I should have been a fool indeed, to sit down quietly and allow another to enjoy mine by right, from a mere idea of honour. Had he succeeded, he would not have shared with me. I _did_ offer him a competency," all this time he had been assorting the papers. "Nothing here," he continued. "What's this? oh! a letter from old Tremenhere, written after his mar--after his connection" (he corrected himself) "with that woman Helene Nunoz, he, evidently being here, and she still abroad, in Paris--eh? not Gibraltar. What says he?" For some moments he attentively read. "I have seen two or three of his letters," he said thoughtfully, "among old papers, and in all he speaks of one 'Estree.' Who can he be? here it is again." He read aloud a passage, accentuating every word, and dwelling on his own final comment thoughtfully for some moments. "'Do you see D'Estree often? Is he kind as ever to my Helena? his child, as he calls her. I should much like _ours_ to be christened by him; might he not be induced to return with us?' This must have been some clergyman or priest," was the thoughtful comment. At that moment his dog arose uneasily from the carpet at his feet, and walked towards the door. "What's the matter, Viper?" asked his master, starting timidly. "Look to it, dog--good dog;" but the dog returned quietly to its former place, and Marmaduke concluded the letter, which only spoke of love, and regret at absence. In the concluding lines again Viper moved to the door, and snuffed the air beneath the crevice. His master grew uneasy; he watched the dog, and, while doing so, tore up the letter he held, and flung it into a basket beneath the table. Viper moved about whining, not in anger, but more in satisfaction and impatience of restraint. The squire arose, and somewhat nervously approached the door. These letters had unnerved him; his hand was on the lock, the dog sprung up with pleasure; another hand turned the handle from the outside, it opened, and Mary Burns entered. As she did so, the dog fawned upon her. "I might have guessed it!" ejaculated Marmaduke, falling back and scowling upon her. "Only you would Viper meet in such a manner; the dog's faithful to old acquaintance, I see." She stood quite still, silent, and very pale. "Down, poor animal, down!" she whispered at last to the dog, which was jumping up to caress her hand.