‘And you loved her too,’ he proceeded, tenderly, ‘and must understand what I felt on first hearing the awful story of her death. But that was my first impression. I have reflected since--a friend of mine has been probing my heart and motives for me, and setting things generally in a clearer light, and the conclusion I have arrived at is, that I shall do nothing more in the matter. I will bury my resentment in my lost wife’s grave, and, though you must feel that I could never see, nor speak to your husband again, yet he is safe from me. His secret is also safe, as far as I am concerned. My lips shall never disclose it. I came here to-night to tell him so.’ ‘How--how can we ever thank you,’ whispered Hannah, through her tears. ‘Your thanks are not due to me, but to my friend. If she had not led my thoughts the right way, they would not have gone there by themselves. Set your mind at rest, therefore, Mrs Hindes. The matter is done with. Will you tell your husband so from me?’ ‘Oh! gladly, thankfully, Mr Walcheren. You have saved him. You have saved us all. May God bless you and your friend for it!’ ‘Thank you,’ he returned quietly, as he bowed and walked out into the hall. Hannah followed him there. ‘Do you go back by the station?’ she inquired. ‘May I send you home in the carriage?’ ‘No thank you!’ he answered, shuddering at the idea of using anything that belonged to Henry Hindes. ‘I am a poor man now, and not used to such luxuries. The station will suit me best.’ And then, without any greeting less formal than an inclination of his head, Frederick Walcheren passed out of the hall door and went on his way. Hannah guessed the reason. Dearly as she had loved the dead girl, he could not persuade himself to shake hands with the wife of her murderer. Perhaps it was best so. Frederick Walcheren would now pass out of their lives for ever.