"'You mean that she will return the letter to me unopened; but I will not rest until she receives my denial of the crime of which she believes me guilty.' "'She will never receive it,' he said in a solemn tone. 'Cannot you guess the truth?' "'Good God!' I cried, a despairing light breaking upon me. "'I can keep it from you no longer,' said my friend; 'sooner or later it must be spoken. She had been for a long time in bad health, as you know; it was impossible to disguise it--her state was serious. The only hope for her lay in a change of climate and in perfect freedom from mental anxiety. In my answer to your letter informing me of your misfortunes at this fatal place I told you I had something of a grave nature to attend to. It concerned your wife. A secret sorrow which she did not impart to me had aggravated her condition, which had become so alarming that the doctor held out no hope of recovery. She had another terrible grief to contend with. Your child--but I cannot go on.' "'You must go on. My wife--my Clair!----' "He assisted me to a seat; I was too weak to stand. "'Go on,' I muttered. 'Go on. All must be told--all, all! Do not spare me. Let me know the worst.' "'Grave symptoms had developed themselves in Clair,' he continued, 'and it was feared that she would share the fate that awaited your wife. In these distressing circumstances she called upon me, and I went to her without delay. I was shocked at her appearance. Death was in her face; death was in the face of your child! I begged her to let me send for you. She would not hear of it; it terrified me to hear the vehemence of her refusal. "He shall not look upon me again, dead or alive!" she cried. "He shall not look upon my child! We are parted for ever and ever!" The doctor, coming in at that moment, warned me that opposition to anything upon which she had set her heart would snap the frail cord that bound her to life. "She can survive but a short time," he said. "In mercy to her, let her last moments be peaceful." What could I say--what could I do but obey?' "My friend waited for my answer. 'You did what was right,' I murmured, racked with anguish. 'Was she at this time in the village she went to when we parted?' "'She had removed from it without my knowledge, in order that you should not find her. It grieves me to make these revelations to you, but the time has gone by for concealment. Clair died first. Her death was painless.' "'Did she not speak? Did she not ask for me?'