Before that letter, Gaunt sat with clenched hands. The veins in his forehead swelled. How right he had been--how fatally exact in his forecast as far as the mother was concerned! How far was he right, after all, about the daughter? Could that letter of hers to Pansy have conceivably been written as a blind--in case he should read it? No. That was not possible--at least it was not possible that Pansy's letter to her sister could have been the result of any kind of premeditation. Besides, the doctor's evidence of his wife's starved condition. Yet here were reproaches for the girl who had been obstinately bent upon a mercenary marriage--a sacrifice which she seemed to have made against her mother's pleadings! How did the rest of the letter harmonise with the outburst of maternal agony which began it? His lip curled, ever more and more, until all his teeth showed, as he read once more the suggestion that, if he had been successfully hoodwinked, he might be bled for an extra hundred a year! As he sat, staring at the paper, he knew one thing certainly. _He must see the reply to that letter._ Moreover, Virginia must write it under the impression that he would _not_ see it. He hardly knew himself as he carefully resealed the envelope, and satisfied himself that it bore no signs of having been tampered with. In that moment he felt that he recked neither of his honour nor of his manhood. He had no scruples. One thing only stood out in his mind as essential. He must know how far his wife was victim and martyr, how far a designing girl. If she was, as her mother declared her to be--mercenary, then there were ways, plenty of ways, in which she might do penance for such fault. But, if it were true that she had been sacrificed for pure love, that her unselfishness was so wonderful, so unheard-of, that she really had laid down her all upon the altar of family affection--why, then, what would happen? He asked himself desperately, what _could_ happen? The only solution that occurred to him at the moment was that he should hang himself. * * * * * When Virginia's tea went upstairs that afternoon, her mother's letter lay upon the tray, as though it had arrived by the second post. With it was a note from Gaunt, to the effect that he was sorry to have to be out that afternoon. An accident had happened on the estate--a large tree had fallen, most unexpectedly, and the huge trunk had blocked the course of the trout-stream, and the water was flooding a meadow. He hoped to look in upon her that evening on his return. Then, below his initials: _For the future I waive my right to inspect your correspondence._ It was late when he came in, wet to the knees and tired out. He had a bath, changed for the evening, and then, before going downstairs, rapped on the door of communication between his own room and Virginia's.