“You were surprised because I was glad Fenella killed that scoundrel. I can tell you, Castleton, but I would not tell anyone else. It was because I saw him enter her room, and, God forgive me! I thought at the time that it was by her wish. That is why I came away from Harrogate that night. That is what kept me away. How could I go back and face my friends with such a shame fresh upon me? It was your lending me your yacht, old man, that made life possible. When I was by myself through the wildness of the Bay of Biscay and among the great billows of the Atlantic I began to be able to bear. I had steeled myself, I thought, and when I heard that so far from my wife being guilty of such a shame, she actually killed the man that attempted her honor, is it any wonder that I felt joyful?” After a pause Castleton asked: “How did you come to see--to see it. Why did you take no step to prevent it? Forgive me, old fellow, but I want to understand.” Frank Onslow went to the rail, and leaned over. When he came back Castleton saw that his eyes were wet. With what cheerfulness he could assume, he answered: “On that very night I had made up my mind to try to win back my wife’s love. I wrote a letter to her, a letter in which I poured out my whole soul, and I left my room to put it under her door, so that she would get it in the morning. But”--here he paused, and then said, slowly, “but when in the corridor, I saw her door open, and at the same moment De Mürger appeared.” “Did she seem surprised?” “Not at first. But a moment after a look of amazement crossed her face, and she stepped back into the room, he following her.” As he said this he put his head between his hands and groaned. “And then?” added his friend. “And then I hardly know what happened. My mind seems full of a dim memory of a blank existence, and then a series of wild whirling thoughts, something like that last moment after death in Wiertz’s picture. I think I must have slept, for it was two o’clock when I saw Fenella, and the clock was striking five when I crossed the bridge after I had left the hotel.” “And the letter? What became of it?” Frank started. “The letter? I never thought of it. Stay! I must have left it on the table in my room. I remember seeing it there a little while before I came away.” “How was it addressed? Do not think me inquisitive, but I cannot help thinking that that letter may yet be of some great importance.” Frank smiled, a sad smile enough, as he answered: “By the pet name I had for Fenella--Mrs. Right. I used to chaff her because she always defended her position when we argued, and so, when I wanted to tease her, I called her Mrs. Right.” “Was it written on hotel paper?” “No. I was going to write on some, but I thought it would be better to use the sort we had when--when we were first married. There were a few sheets in my writing case, so I took one.” “That was headed somewhere in Surrey, was it not?”