“‘Algernon and Langley have gone into the study to talk business. It is this affair of the Mill that is still unsettled. I am a little anxious about Algernon; he has been strangely distrait for the last two or three days. Perhaps he is anxious about me. There need be no anxiety; I am quite well and strong. This morning he got up very early, and I heard him walking about in the study below. This is not his way at all. However, should a wife repine because her Lord is anxious about her? Algernon is very determined about that Mill, but I fear that Langley will not give way. You know how firm he can be behind that pleasant smile of his.’ “Nothing much in that letter, Constance, is there?” “I don’t know. It is the voice of the dead. So are these letters of Langley’s to his wife. They speak of a subject of disagreement: neither would give way. Mr. Campaigne was at times overcome with anger uncontrolled. Leonard, it is wonderful how much we have learned since we first began this inquiry--I mean, this new evidence of the quarrel and Mr. Campaigne’s ungovernable temper and his strange outburst in the evening. Oh! it is new evidence”--her face changed: she looked like one who sees a light suddenly shine in the darkness--a bright and unexpected light. “It is new evidence,” she repeated with wondering, dazzled eyes. “It explains, everything”--she stopped and turned white. “Oh!” She shrank back as if she felt a sudden pain at her heart: she put up her hands as if to push back some terrible creature. She sprang to her feet. She trembled and shook: she clasped her forehead--the gesture was natural to the face of terror and amazement and sudden understanding. Leonard caught her in his arms, but she did not fall. She laid her hand upon his shoulder, and she bowed her head. “Oh, God, help us!” she murmured. “What is it? Constance, what is it?” “Leonard, no one--no one--no one was in the wood but only those two--and they quarrelled, and the Squire was taller than his brother--and we have found the truth. Leonard, my poor friend--my cousin--we have found the truth.” She drew herself away from him, and sank back into her chair, hiding her face in her hands. Leonard dropped the papers. “Constance!” he cried. For in a moment the truth flashed across his brain--the truth that explained everything--the despair of the wretched man, the resolve to save an innocent man, a remorse that left him not by day or night, so that he could do nothing, think of nothing, for all the long, long years that followed; a remorse which forbade him to hold converse with his fellow-man, which robbed him of every pleasure and every solace, even the solace of his little children. “Constance!” he cried again, holding out his hands as if for help. She lifted her head but not her eyes; she took both his hands in hers. “My friend,” she whispered, “have courage.” So for a brief space they remained, he standing before her, she sitting, but holding both his hands, with weeping eyes.