“It will do, I think,” said Craven Black exultantly. “I might have made it stronger, ordered her to marry Rufus under penalty of a father’s curse, but that would not have been like Sir Harold Wynde, and she might have suspected the letter to be a forgery. As it is, Sir Harold himself would hardly dare to deny the letter as his own, should his spirit walk in here. I’ve managed the letter with the requisite delicacy and caution, and there can be no doubt of the result. The handwriting is perfect.” He inclosed the letter, and addressed it to Miss Neva Wynde, sealing it with the bronze wax, and Sir Harold’s private seal. Then he inclosed the sealed letter in a larger envelope, that which had inclosed the baronet’s last letter to his wife from India. The letter which had come in this envelope was written upon three pages, and contained nothing at variance with his forged missive. Upon the fourth and blank page of Sir Harold’s last letter he forged a postscript, enjoining Lady Wynde to give the inclosure--the forgery--to Neva, in case of his death in India, but to keep it one year, until her school-days were ended, and the first bitterness of grief at her father’s death was past. Craven Black made up the double letter into a thick packet resembling a book, and addressed it to Lady Wynde. He gathered together all his scraps of paper and the envelopes remaining and burned them, and cleared away the evidences of his night’s work. He extinguished his lights, drew back his curtains, opened his windows to the summer morning breeze, and flung himself on a sofa and went to sleep. He was awakened about eight o’clock by the waiter at the door with his breakfast. He arose yawning, gave the waiter admittance, and summoned a messenger, whom he dispatched to Hawkhurst, early as was the hour, with orders to give the packet he had made into the hands of Lady Wynde or Mrs. Artress, Lady Wynde’s companion. “Artress will be on the look-out for him,” thought Craven Black. “She will meet the messenger at the lodge gates, and carry the packet herself to Octavia. So that is arranged!” He summoned his son to breakfast, and presently Rufus came in, worn and haggard, having evidently passed a sleepless night. The two men ate their breakfast without speaking. After the meal, when the tray had been removed, Rufus would have withdrawn, but his father commanded him to remain. “I want you to write a letter to that girl in Brompton,” said Craven Black, in the tone that always compelled the abject obedience of his son. “Tell her it is all up between you--that she is not your wife--that you shall never see her again!” “I cannot--I cannot! I must see her again. I must break the news to her tenderly--” “Do as I say. There are writing materials on my desk. Write the letter I have ordered, or, by Heaven, I’ll summon a constable on the spot!”