She did not move nor stir. Then, after a long silence, she said, "Let me see it." He felt in his pocket and produced it. She stretched out her hand and took it. She read it through slowly. "You think that I wrote this?" she asked. "No, I know that you did not." "To whom was it supposed to be written?" "To 'Morris of St. James'." She nodded her head. "Ah, yes. We're friends. That's why they chose him. Of course it's a forgery," she added--"a very clever one." "What I don't understand," he said eagerly, at his heart the strangest relief that he did not dare to stop to analyse, "is why any one should have troubled to do this--the risk, the danger----" "You have enemies," she said. "Of course you know that. People who are jealous." "One enemy," he answered fiercely. "Ronder. The woman had been to him with this letter before she came to me." "The woman! What woman? "The woman who brought it to me was a Miss Milton--a wretched creature who was once at the Library." "And she had been with this to Canon Ronder before she came to you?" "Yes." "Ah!" Then she said very quietly: "And what do you mean to do about the letter?" "I will do whatever you wish me to do. What I would like to do is to leave no step untaken to bring the authors of this forgery to justice. No step. I will----" "No," she broke in quickly. "It is much better to leave it alone. What good can it do to follow it up? It only tells every one about it. We should despise it. The thing is so obviously false. Why you can see," suddenly holding the letter towards him, "it isn't even like my writing. My s's, my m's--they're not like that----" "No, no," he said eagerly. "I see that they are not. I saw that at once." "You knew at once that it was a forgery?" "I knew at once. I never doubted for an instant." She sighed; then settled back into the pillow with a little shudder. "This town," she said; "the things they do. Oh! to get away from it, to get away!" "And we will!" he cried eagerly. "That's what we need, both of us--a holiday. I've been thinking it over. We're both tired. When this Jubilee is over we'll go abroad--Italy, Greece. We'll have a second honeymoon. Oh, Amy, we'll begin life again. I've been much to blame--much to blame. Give me that letter. I'll destroy it. I know my enemy, but I'll not think of him or of any one but our two selves. I'll be good to you now if you'll let me." She gave him the letter. "Look at it before you tear it up," she said, staring at him as though she would not miss any change in his features. "You're sure that it is a forgery?" "Why, of course." "It's nothing like my handwriting?" "Nothing at all." "You know that I am devoted to you, that I would never be untrue to you in thought, word or deed?" "Why, of course, of course. As though I didn't know----" "And that I'll love to come abroad with you?" "Yes, yes." "And that we'll have a second honeymoon?" "Yes, yes. Indeed, Amy, we will."