Of the past we had not spoken. She had been too full of grief, too utterly overcome by the tragedy of the situation. Her mournful figure struck a sympathetic chord in my heart. Perhaps I had misjudged her; perhaps I had attributed to her sinister motives that were non-existent. Alas! wherever mystery exists, little charity enters man's heart. Jealousy dries up the milk of human kindness. "Dearest," I said, rising and taking her slim white hand that lay idly in her lap, "in this hour of your distress you have at least one person who would console and comfort you--one man who loves you." She raised her eyes to mine quickly, with a strange, eager look. Her glance was as though she did not fully realize the purport of my words. I knew myself to be a sad blunderer in the art of love, and wondered if my words were too blunt and abrupt. "Ah!" she sighed. "If only I believed that those words came direct from your heart, Ralph!" "They do," I assured her. "You received my letter at Hereford--you read what I wrote to you?" "Yes," she answered. "I read it. But how can I believe in you further, after your unaccountable treatment? You forsook me without giving any reason. You can't deny that." "I don't seek to deny it," I said. "On the contrary, I accept all the blame that may attach to me. I only ask your forgiveness," and bending to her in deep earnestness, I pressed the small hand that was within my grasp. "But if you loved me, as you declare you have always done, why did you desert me in that manner?" she inquired, her large dark eyes turned seriously to mine. I hesitated. Should I tell her the truth openly and honestly? "Because of a fact which came to my knowledge," I answered, after a long pause. "What fact?" she asked with some anxiety. "I made a discovery," I said ambiguously. "Regarding me?" "Yes, regarding yourself," I replied, with my eyes fixed full upon hers. I saw that she started at my words, her countenance fell, and she caught her breath quickly. "Well, tell me what it is," she asked in a hard tone, a tone which showed me that she had steeled herself for the worst. "Forgive me if I speak the truth," I exclaimed. "You have asked me, and I will be perfectly frank with you. Well, I discovered amongst old Mr. Courtenay's papers a letter written by you several years ago which revealed the truth." "The truth!" she gasped, her face blanched in an instant. "The truth of what?" "That you were once engaged to become his wife." Her breast heaved quickly, and I saw that my words had relieved her of some grave apprehension. When I declared that I knew "the truth" she believed that I spoke of the secret of Courtenay's masquerading. The fact of her previous engagement was, to her, of only secondary importance, for she replied: "Well, and is that the sole cause of your displeasure?" I felt assured, from the feigned flippancy of her words, that she held knowledge of the strange secret.