"I am certain of it," she said. "Now, but for our precipitation last night, you would have gone naturally to Julia for comfort. So my brother sends word that he is going back to Guernsey to-night, leaving us in Hanover Street, where we are close to you. We have said nothing to Julia yet. She is crying over this sad news--mourning for your sorrow. You know that my brother has not spoken directly to Julia of his love; and now all that is in the past, and is to be as if it had never been, and we go on exactly as if we had not had that conversation yesterday." "But that cannot be," I remonstrated. "I cannot consent to Julia wasting her love and time upon me. I assure you most solemnly I shall never marry my cousin now." "You love her?" said Johanna. "Certainly," I answered, "as my sister." "Better than any woman now living?" she pursued. "Yes," I replied. "That is all Julia requires," she continued; "so let us say no more at present, Martin. Only understand that all idea of marriage between her and my brother is quite put away. Don't argue with me, don't contradict me. Come to see us as you would have done but for that unfortunate conversation last night. All will come right by-and-by." "But Captain Carey--" I began. "There! not a word!" she interrupted imperatively. "Tell me all about that wretch, Richard Foster. How did you come across him? Is he likely to die? Is he any thing like Kate Daltrey?--I will never call her Kate Dobrée as long as the world lasts. Come, Martin, tell me every thing about him." She sat with me most of the morning, talking with animated perseverance, and at last prevailed upon me to take her a walk in Hyde Park. Her pertinacity did me good in spite of the irritation it caused me. When her dinner-hour was at hand I felt bound to attend her to her house in Hanover Street; and I could not get away from her without first speaking to Julia. Her face was very sorrowful, and her manner sympathetic. We said only a few words to one another, but I went away with the impression that her heart was still with me. CHAPTER THE FORTIETH. A TORMENTING DOUBT. At dinner Jack announced his intention of paying a visit to Richard Foster. "You are not fit to deal with the fellow," he said; "you may be sharp enough upon your own black sheep in Guernsey, but you know nothing of the breed here. Now, if I see him, I will squeeze out of him every mortal thing he knows about Olivia. Where did those papers come from?" "There was no place given," I answered. "But there would be a post-mark on the envelop," he replied; "I will make him show me the envelop they were in." "Jack," I said, "you do not suppose he has any doubt of her death?" "I can't say," he answered. "You see he has married again, and if she were not dead that would be bigamy--an ugly sort of crime. But are you sure they are married?"