Did you know the miserable life I have had, you would pity me. I am sorry if I was rude last night. I do not wish to be rude; but I am surrounded on all sides by terror and death, and care not sometimes what I say or do. You have been very good to me; and I thank you. Marry Mr. Mallow--I know he loves you--and forget Carlo and the miserable woman, Clara Boldini. "P.S.--When Carlo and I are safe and settled we intend to send for my uncle to live with us. We will rescue him from the brotherhood. Carlo is not a bad man--indeed, he is not. Weakness is his only fault. With me he begs your pardon for his wickedness; but remember his character, his oath, his helplessness, and forgive him.--C.B." It was a sad letter, written by a woman who, surrounded by better people and under good influence, might have remained true to the better part of her nature. By the tides of life she had been swept to the lee shore of disaster. Olive felt that in no small degree fate had been against her, and in her generosity she was unwilling to be the one to cast a stone at the unfortunate woman. On the contrary, her impulse prompted her to help Clara with money and advice--to rescue her and her weak husband from their danger, and to help them to their first step on the way to a new life. With such philanthropic intentions she started off to the Hotel du Sud. An hour later Aldean returned, followed by a man with a hand-barrow. It was laden with a curious-looking chest of yellowish wood, bound with brass. Dismissing his porter, Aldean had the box taken upstairs and placed in a corner of the salon. He was disappointed that Olive should be absent when he returned with this trophy of his victory over Semberry, but, to pass the time, he set to work to examine the chest's contents. A thin brass key unlocked it, and Aldean was soon so deeply interested in his search that he almost forgot the absence of his fellow-worker. By the time he had reached the bottom of the trunk, the floor of the room was strewn with wearing apparel of all kinds. The chest was literally packed with garments of every colour and pattern imaginable. Shooting-suits of rough home-spun; tropical garbs of white boots, riding-breeches, high brown boots, shirts, scarves, collars, under-wear--all more or less impregnated with the scent of the wood. But amongst all these now useless articles not a scrap of writing. Aldean was disappointed. He had fancied that a stray letter or a journal, or even a card, might have been forthcoming to throw some light on the owner's past. Yet he might have guessed that all evidence likely to inculpate Semberry, or Drabble, or Mrs. Arne would have been removed by one of them before the chest left London. Two out of the three, at least, were old hands at obliterating tracks.