"He is dead!" cried Isla, in the shrill, hard tone that had no kinship with that of her usually sweet low voice. "And the thing that killed him was the letter from India--Colonel Martindale’s version of the story." "Give it to me!" said Malcolm, with an air almost of menace as he stepped to her side. "No, I will not," she answered clearly. "It is not yours. It was father’s, and now it is mine. To think that after all our watching, it should have fallen into his hands at last!" Malcolm, very white and haggard now, moved with a step that was very unsteady into the library, Isla following, for it suddenly dawned upon her that it was unseemly to wrangle there within a step of the chamber of death. "Tell me what has happened," he said hoarsely. "Surely you will not deny me the right to know." "There it very little to tell," said Isla drearily. "I went out early, and before going to meet David Bain, I went to the keeper’s house at Rofallion to ask for Mrs. Dugid. Then while I was waiting at the gate for David Mr. Rosmead came up." "And David had delivered the letters, I suppose, while you were at Rofallion?" "Yes, of course, and father opened that one, and, though he might have looked at a dozen others without comprehending their meaning, he knew the meaning of that one at once," she said. And her face set again like the nether millstone. She had no pity for Malcolm, she did not even in that moment of awful bitterness give him credit for one spark of decent feeling. She hardly observed that he was trembling like an aspen and that his face had grown haggard about the mouth, like that of an old man. "Isla, I want that letter. I must have it," he said in a low voice. She heard him as she heard him not, and his tone became more desperate. "Did you read it, Isla?" "No." "Will you read it?" "No." "Then give it to me." "Oh, what does it matter? The fire is the place for it--the very heart of it, where it will be consumed quickly, now that it has done its deadly work," she said drearily "Do you understand what has happened, Malcolm? Our father is dead, and it is you who have killed him, just as surely as if you had put a bullet into him." "For God’s sake, hold your tongue, Isla! You would drive a man to the edge of despair."