Sick with horror, I was stumbling away from this dreadful place when Mr. Shrig's voice stayed me. "'Old 'ard, sir--bide a bit! If the con-clusions as I've drawed is correct, here should be summat o' yourn." Turning about, I espied him on his knees, examining the contents of the dead man's pockets with a methodical precision that revolted me. "Of mine?" said I, shuddering. "Your werry own, sir. 'T was one o' the reasons as I brought you along--I do 'ope Windictiveness here ain't destroyed it--ah, 'ere it is, Mr. Werricker, sir--though the seal's broke, you'll ob-serve." Dazed and wondering, I took the letter he held out to me, but no sooner had I glanced at the superscription than I forgot all else for the moment. "How--how should that man--come by this?" I stammered at last. "Took or pur-loined it from the young 'ooman Nancy Price, sir, according to 'er own ewidence, as stated to me in my little office this mornin'--an' her a-veepin' all over my papers, pore lass! Aha!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, still busied on his researches. "He's got summat in this 'ere 'ind pocket as I can't come at--p'raps you'll obleege me by heavin' Windictiveness over a bit, sir? Why, never mind, sir--done it myself--" "How--did the young woman come by this letter?" "'T is in ewidence as years ago she was maid to a lady--now Mrs. Vere-Manville, it was give her by that same. What, are ye goin', sir? Werry good, this ain't exactly a cheery spot at present. Will you be so obleegin' as to send a cart an', say, a 'urdle for these ere birds o' mine?" And so I left him, sitting between his "birds" whose flying days were done, busily making notes in his little book, very like some industrious clerk posting his ledger for the day. Reaching the "Bull" Inn, I despatched cart and hurdle as desired and, ordering rooms for the night, shut myself therein to escape the general hubbub and horrified questioning my news had called forth. And here, remote from all and sundry, I unfolded the letter a dead man's hand had opened and read these words: Knowing you vile, I should have grieved for you, pitied you, but loved you still. Believing me vile, you are pitiless, cold, and with no mercy in you. Indeed and you would have shamed me! But true love, being of Heaven, knows no shame and can never die. Oh, you poor, blind Peregrine. TO MY PATIENT AND KINDLY READER Here do I make an end of this Second Book, wherein shall be found overmuch of blood, of gloom and shadow, of misunderstanding and heartbreak engendered of my own perfervid imagination; and glad am I and more than glad to have done with it. And here, since the longest road must end, since after storm and tempest must come peace and heavenly calm, and because "though heaviness endure for a night yet joy cometh in the morning"--here do I begin this Third, last, and shortest Book which those enduring Readers who have borne with and followed me thus far may see is inscribed DAWN _Book Three_ DAWN