Alas, those fatal words--too late! How often have they wrecked life and honor and happiness; how often have they brought misery and shame not only upon the cowardly doer of wrong, but upon those who trusted and believed in him! And yet it was to save Ellen and my son from the misery and shame which my punishment would have brought to them that I did as I have done. I have no other excuse to offer. Again and again has Maxwell pointed out that the arguments he used were not fallacious, and in this he was right. Up to the present moment the body of Louis has not been identified. For a few weeks after the discovery of the murder the newspapers continued to give their readers such information as was supplied by the police--meagre and unsatisfactory enough, and leading to no solution of the mystery--until another tragic sensation thrust it from the public mind. All this time I have been in hiding, with Maxwell ever dogging and robbing me; all this time I have been sending letters to Ellen in the care of my solicitor, making false excuses for my detention in Australia; all this time I have been receiving letters from her, every line in which proved the faith and trust she had in me, and her confidence that what I did was right. The sweetest, the dearest letters! With eyes over-brimming I have read and re-read them--read them with shame, with terror, with remorse, with the distracting thought eternally in my mind, "If she but knew--if she but knew!" Would it have been better for me had Louis' mother been alive? This reflection has frequently occurred to me. She loved him and hated me, and this love and hate linked us together in her mind. His disappearance would have brought into play the full power of her malignity and love. She would have moved heaven and earth to unravel the mystery, and I do not doubt that she would have dragged me from the frightful haven of unrest in which I have been lurking. Would it have been better for me? Perhaps. Not much that Maxwell says deserves to be remembered, but certain words he spoke have burnt themselves into my heart. "Innocence proclaims itself; guilt hides its head." It is not always true. Proclaiming myself guilty I protest my innocence of evil intent. And now I am ruined and a beggar. Maxwell's exactions have brought me to this pass; all that remains is Ellen's pitiful allowance. Maxwell, by some means, has discovered this, and has repeatedly threatened to denounce me if I do not hand it over to him. If I were weak enough to yield he would devise some new form of torture when that small sum was squandered. It shall not be. Hope is dead; my life is desolate. Despairing days, sleepless nights--I live in purgatory. The end has come, my confession is made. Solemnly I declare that every word I have written is true. Dear Ellen, forgive me, comfort me, console me! PART II. CHAPTER XXVII.