Even to hear his questioning roused her to a sense of what the knowledge would mean to him, and the instinct of defence overcame even her pride. "Am I not the sort of woman? All women are alike when they are jealous. Can't you see it, Paul--can't you understand? or will you force me to say it all over again? I know nothing, positively nothing, to prevent your marrying Marjory. Go down to Gleneira if you will." He shook his head. "Don't prevaricate, Violet. I had rather you lied to me, but for pity's sake do neither. Be my friend and tell me the truth." For an instant his gentleness overcame her fence. "I cannot, Paul--I cannot," she almost wailed; then remembering herself, she went on, "How can I, when there is nothing to tell?" "I will not leave the room till I know," was his reply. "There _is_ something, and you shall tell me. You will not; then I must find out for myself--there was a letter in your hand. Let me go, Violet! I don't want to hurt you, but I must and will have that letter, unless---- No! I cannot trust you for the truth. I must see that letter for myself." She knew enough of him to recognise that now his imperious temper was roused, her only chance lay in an appeal to his affection. "Listen, Paul! I have done so much for you. Pay me back now--only this little thing. I don't want you to see that letter--you have no right to see it." He shook his head, and she flung the hands she had been detaining from her with a cry. "You do not trust me! You do not trust me! That is hard after all these years." "No! I cannot trust you, dear; you are too good to me," he said gently, as he walked over to the table. The dusk had grown into dark, and he passed on to the window, in hopes of sufficient light to decipher the letter he held; failing that he came back to the fire. "Don't strain your eyes over it," she said bitterly, as she leant--as if tired out--against the mantelpiece, watching him sombrely. "I strained mine over it once--needlessly. I will ring for lights, and you can surely wait for so much, now you have got your own way." So they waited in silence, standing side by side before the fire, till the servant had set the shaded lamp on the table, and drawn the window curtains carefully, methodically. Then he glanced at the superscription, and pointing to it, said, "Why did you read it?" for across the first blank page was scrawled legibly, "Not to be read by anyone till Paul Macleod of Gleneira is dead." "Because I chose--the reason why _you_ read it, I suppose." The old admiration for her spirit which, even now, did not hesitate to meet him boldly on his own ground, rose in him as, instinctively, he turned to the signature for some further light to guide him in reading the closely written sheets. Then his eye caught a name at the bottom of a page where the writing merged from ink to a faint pencil.