Then he opened the envelope. His hands trembled a little; he came to himself gradually, and became aware that this was no light business he was about. It was the laugh that had roused him, the laugh with which he himself or somebody else--could it be somebody else?--had disturbed the silence. A quantity of letters were inside, some in his father’s writing, some in another--a large, irregular, feminine hand. Instinctively he secured that one which had appeared through the tear in the cover, and read it word by word. It was one of the square letters written before envelopes were used, and bore on the yellow outside fold an address half-obliterated and some postmarks. He read it to the last word; he made an effort to decipher the outside; he investigated and noted the yellow date on the postmarks. He knew very well what he was doing now; never had his brain been more collected, never had he been more clear-headed all his life. Twice over he read it, word by word, and then put it down by his side, and arranged the others according to their dates. There were alternate letters, each with its reply. Two minds--two souls--had met in those yellow bits of paper, and gone through a terrible struggle; they were the tempter and the tempted--the one advancing all his arguments, the other hesitating, doubting, refusing--hesitating again. Carefully, slowly, Edgar read every one. There was nothing fictitious about them. Clear and distinct as the daylight was the terrible story they involved--the story of which he himself, in his ignorance, was the hero--of which he was the victim. All alone in the darkness and stillness of the night there fell upon him this awful revelation--a thing he had never expected, never feared--a new thing, such as man never had heard of before.