"It is strange," he remarked, after several minutes, "these incoherent lines show none of the nobility of feeling that characterise your son's other writings. His mind seems to have become clouded, and the lassitude and ennui his work caused him is everywhere apparent. But here are a few words which seem to have been carefully erased," added David, trying to decipher them. Marie approached her guest with the intention of assisting him, if possible, and as she bent over the table her arm lightly grazed David's. The pressure was so slight that Marie did not even notice it, but it sent a sort of electric thrill through David; but so great was his self-control that he remained perfectly impassive, though he realised for the first time since he made his generous offer that the woman with whom he was to live on such terms of intimacy was young and wonderfully beautiful, as well as endowed with the most admirable traits of character. He gave no sign of all this, however, but with Marie's assistance continued his efforts to decipher the words Frederick had erased, and after patient study they succeeded in making out here and there the following phrases which seemed to have no connection whatever with what preceded or followed them, but had apparently been jotted down almost involuntarily under the influence of some strong emotion. For instance, one leaf bore this fragmentary sentence: " ...for persons doomed to a humiliating obscurity of lot, the inability to lift oneself from it is--" Two or three words at the beginning of the sentence had been entirely obliterated. Farther on, upon another page were these two words, but slightly blurred, as if their laconicism was sufficient protection against interpretation: "Why? By what right--" And lastly, this more complete sentence was deciphered with great difficulty: "Through you, great and holy Revolution, the weak became the strong. The hour of vengeance came at last, terrible indeed, but grand and far-reaching in its--" As David was slowly perusing these words a second time as if to gather their hidden significance, the clock on the mantel struck twelve. "Twelve!" exclaimed Madame Bastien, in surprise, "twelve o'clock already!" David rose at once, and, taking the book, said: "With your permission, madame, I will take this with me. What we have deciphered is very vague, but it may give us a clue to the truth. Good night, madame." "Good night, M. David. I gladly accept all the encouragement you hold out to me. I need it more than I can tell you. To-morrow will be a momentous day to us. God grant it may prove a propitious one." "God grant it, madame." CHAPTER XXII. As soon as his mother's words brought a full realisation of the crime he had tried to commit, Frederick experienced the keenest remorse; but though he was conscientious enough to feel appalled by his attempt at homicide, he was far from being cured of his hatred and envy.