"She is jealous. I remember--she imagined that it is my child. She believes I may marry Amaryllis. It is as plain as day!" He jumped up and excitedly held out his hands. "Let us fetch Denzil," he cried joyously. "I can explain everything." Amaryllis left the room swiftly and called when she got outside his door: "Denzil--do come." He joined them in a second or two--there as he was, in a blue silk dressing gown, as he had just been going to dress for dinner. He looked from one face to the other anxiously and Stepan immediately spoke. "I think that the card is a forgery, Denzil. I believe it to have been written by Ferdinand Ardayre--at the instigation of Harietta Boleski. She would have means to obtain the postcard, and have it sent through Holland too." "But why--why should she?" Amaryllis exclaimed in wonderment. "What possible reason could she have for wishing to be so cruel to us. We were always very nice to her, as you know." Verisschenzko laughed cynically. "She was jealous of you all the same. But Denzil, I track it by the scent. I know Ferdinand uses that scent," he held out the card. "Smell." Denzil sniffed as Amaryllis had done. "It is so faint I should not have remarked it unless you had told me--but I daresay if it was a scent one had smelt before, one would be struck by it! But how are you going to prove it, Stepan? We shall have to have convincing proof--because I am the only witness of poor John's death, and it could easily be said that I am too deeply interested to be reliable. For God's sake, old friend, think of some way of making a certainty." "I have a way which I can enforce as soon as I reach Paris. Meanwhile say nothing to any one and put the thought of it out of your heads. The evidence of your own eyes convinced you that John is dead; you found it difficult to accept that he was alive even when seeing what appeared to be his own writing, but if I assure you that this is forged you can be at peace. Is it not so?" Amaryllis' lips were trembling; the shock and then this counter shock were unhinging her. She was horrified at herself that she should not catch at every straw to prove John was alive, instead of feeling some sense of relief when Verisschenzko protested that the postcard was a forgery. Poor John! Good, and kind, and unselfish. It was all too agitating. But was just life such a very great thing? She knew that had she the choice she would rather be dead than separated now from Denzil. And if John were really to be alive--what misery he would be obliged to suffer, knowing the situation.