"I believe there's one letter she must have hidden," answered Sarah, "unless she destroyed it--a letter that came from Paris four days before she made away with herself. I saw the postmark and the handwriting, so I know. It was from _him_, for he was in Paris at the time, and it was that letter that was the death of her, I feel certain. It came about eleven o'clock, soon after breakfast. She was at the piano in her dressing-gown, singing, not ordinary singing, but a kind of moaning of different notes, practising her voice like--it used to give me the blues to hear her every morning, it was so doleful like, moan, moan, moan! So I says, 'A letter for you, mum,' and she first stared at it in my hand, then she jumped up sudden like, and kind of snatched it out of my hand. But she didn't read it. She went with it to the front window, looking out, holding the letter behind her back with her two hands, trembling from head to foot. So, not having any excuse to stay, I went out, but didn't quite close the door. I loitered for a little while; but, not hearing anything, I went about my work, till half an hour later something seemed to say to me: 'Better have a look,' and when I peeped into the drawing-room, there she was sitting on the floor with her face on the sofa, and the letter in her hand. I thought she had the neuralgia; she looked that much in pain, you never saw. I spoke to her, but she looked at me, sick like, and didn't say nothing. I don't believe she could have stood up, if she had tried, and it did go to my heart to see her struck down and helpless like that." David's close interest in her story pleased the girl. Such a nice young man he was! Perhaps he might call again some evening. "My missus wasn't quite right the rest of her time, I don't think," she went on. "She wandered about the flat, restless as a strange kitten, singing bits of songs, and she had a sweet soprano voice, I'm sure, that pierced you through when she screamed out the high notes. She didn't go to the theater any more, after the letter. The next day she comes to me in the kitchen, singing and chuckling to herself, and she says to me: 'What are you doing here?' says she. 'How do you mean, mum?' says I. 'Listen, Sarah,' says she, putting her face quite close to mine, 'you shouldn't be here, this is not a place for a decent girl like you. You are to understand that I am not married. I told you that I was; but it was a lie. I have a child; but I am not married,' and she ran off, laughing again to herself, as wild as a bird." "No, not that!" interrupted David, for the outspoken revelation hurt him. "It was not so much that which I wished to hear. Let us talk of the letter and the man. You never saw the letter again? You can't think what your mistress may have done with it?"