"Wolfenden, I wanted that letter," she said, her voice dying away in something like a moan. "It is not that I have anything more than folly to reproach myself with, but it was written--it was the only one--after my marriage. Just at first I was not very happy with your father. We had had a quarrel, I forget what about, and I sat down and wrote words which I have many a time bitterly repented ever having put on paper. I have never forgotten them--I never shall! I have seen them often in my happiest moments, and they have seemed to me to be written with letters of fire." "You have it back now? You have destroyed it?" She shook her head wearily. "No, I was to have had it when he had succeeded; I had not let him in five minutes when you disturbed us." "Tell me the man's name." "Why?" "I will get you the letter." "He would not give it you. You could not make him." Wolfenden's eyes flashed with a sudden fire. "You are mistaken," he said. "The man who holds for blackmail over a woman's head, a letter written twenty years ago, is a scoundrel! I will get that letter from him. Tell me his name!" Lady Deringham shuddered. "Wolfenden, it would bring trouble! He is dangerous. Don't ask me. At least I have kept my word to him. It was not my fault that we were disturbed. He will not molest me now." "Mother, I will know his name!" "I cannot tell it you!" "Then I will find it out; it will not be difficult. I will put the whole matter in the hands of the police. I shall send to Scotland Yard for a detective. There are marks underneath the window. I picked up a man's glove upon the library floor. A clever fellow will find enough to work upon. I will find this blackguard for myself, and the law shall deal with him as he deserves." "Wolfenden, have mercy! May I not know best? Are my wishes, my prayers, nothing to you?" "A great deal, mother, yet I consider myself also a judge as to the wisest course to pursue. The plan which I have suggested may clear up many things. It may bring to light the real object of this man. It may solve the mystery of that impostor, Wilmot. I am tired of all this uncertainty. We will have some daylight. I shall telegraph to-morrow morning to Scotland Yard." "Wolfenden, I beseech you!" "So also do I beseech you, mother, to tell me that man's name. Great heavens!" Wolfenden sprang suddenly from his chair with startled face. An idea, slow of coming, but absolutely convincing from its first conception, had suddenly flashed home to him. How could he have been so blind? He stood looking at his mother in fixed suspense. The light of his knowledge was in his face, and she saw it. She had been dreading this all the while. "It was Mr. Sabin!--the man who calls himself Sabin!" A little moan of despair crept out from her lips. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed. CHAPTER XXX THE GATHERING OF THE WAR-STORM