“You were indeed the victim of a generous and confiding heart.” “I was fond of him to the last, monsieur, and I forgave him all my sufferings; but let no woman ever marry a drunkard with the hope of reforming him.” “Were you quite alone in your martyrdom; had your husband no relatives left to help him on his dying bed?” “Not one. He told me he was the last of his race. He must have had distant relations, I suppose; but his elder brother was dead, and his sister.” “You are sure his brother was dead?” “Yes; he fell into the water at Nice on a dark evening, when he was going on board the steamer for Corsica. I have got the paper with the account of his death.” “Will you show me that paper, and any other documents relating to your husband’s family? I know I have no right to ask such a favour; but all I can say is that I shall be very grateful if you will so far oblige me.” The _table d’hôte_ was in full swing in the adjoining room, as testified by the clattering of plates and the jingle of knives and forks, and a subdued murmur as of a good many confidential conversations carried on simultaneously. “You want to see my poor Fred’s private papers,” said the widow, meditatively. “That’s a good deal to ask; not that there are any secrets in them that can hurt anybody above ground. The Colonel is dead, and his sister. My husband was the last. But I can’t understand why anybody should want to pry into a dead man’s papers, unless there’s property hanging to them.” She looked at Theodore suspiciously, as if she could not divest herself of the idea of a fortune having turned up somehow, unexpectedly; a fortune to which her dead husband was entitled. “There is no property, I assure you. It is a question of sentiment, not of money.” “You’re a lawyer, I suppose?” said Coralie, still suspiciously. She supposed that it was only lawyers who went about prying into the affairs of the dead. “I am a lawyer; but the business which brings me to Jersey is not law business.” “Well, I don’t see how any harm can come to me through your seeing my husband’s papers. There’s not many to see—a few letters from the Colonel, and two or three from a lawyer about the legacy, and a dozen or so from old friends, refusing or sending him money. You’ve spoken kindly to me, and I’ve felt that you could sympathize with me, though you’re a stranger—so—well—you may see his letters, though it hurts me to touch anything that belonged to him, _le pauvre homme_.”