"My lady, he thought as he had got Rose Cameron lagged, he would never be found out. Here, my lady, is the first letter he wrote to her after they were married. I reckon it is a foolish love-letter enough, not worth reading; but what I want you to notice is, his handwriting, and the way he commences his letter--'My Darling Wife,' and the way he ends it--'Your Devoted Husband, Arondelle.'" "I recognize the handwriting, and I note the signature. I do not wish to read the letter," muttered Salome, waving it away. "Well, then, my lady, here is a photograph of his grace, given to his wife a few days before their marriage," said the widow, offering a small card. Salome took it, looked at it, and dropped it with a long, low wail of anguish. It was a duplicate of one presented to herself by the Duke of Hereward, from the same negative. Silence again fell between the lady and her visitor until it was broken by a rap at the door, and the voice of the maid without, saying: "Beg pardon, your grace, but Lady Belgrade desires me to say that you have but fifteen minutes to catch the train." "Very well," replied the young duchess; but her voice sounded strangely unlike her own. "Your ladyship will not go on your bridal tour?" said the visitor, imploringly. "No, I shall not go on a bridal tour. How can I?--I am not a bride. I am not a wife. I am not the Duchess of Hereward. I am just Salome Levison, as I was before that false marriage ceremony was performed over me! But do you be discreet. Say nothing below stairs of what has passed between us here," said Salome, speaking now with such amazing self-control that no one could have guessed the anguish and despair of her soul but for the marble whiteness and rigidity of her face. "Be sure I shall not say one word, my lady," answered Mrs. Brown. There was another low rap at the door, and again the voice of the maid was heard: "Please your grace, what shall I say to Lady Belgrade?" "Tell her ladyship that I am nearly ready," answered the young duchess. "And, Margaret," she added, "show this good woman out. And then, do not return here until I ring." The visitor courtesied and went to the door, where she was met by the maid, who conducted her down stairs. Salome locked and double-locked and bolted the doors leading from her apartments to the front corridor, and then she retreated to her dressing-room, alone with her terrible trial. Who can conceive the mortal agony suffered by that young, overburdened heart and overtasked brain. Who can estimate the force of the conflict that raged in her bosom, between her passion and her conscience? Between her love and her duty? Between what she knew of her worshiped husband, from daily association, and what she had just heard proved upon him by overwhelming testimony, confirmed also by the evidence of her own too long discredited senses!