Bee would not turn her head. She thought she saw the writing written in fire upon the air--all his familiar turns in it. How well she knew the A. L.; but she did not look at it--would not look. She had enough to do looking at his face, which was the letter--the book she was studying now. “No doubt it is my handwriting,” he said, “only it was addressed not to any other woman, but to my wife.” “Your wife died two years ago, Mr. Leigh; and that is dated Christmas--this year.” “That is a lie!” he cried; then restrained himself painfully. “You know I don’t mean you--but the date and the assumption is entirely a lie. Give me time, and I will tell you exactly when it was written. I remember the letter. It was when I had promised Amy to provide for her friend on condition that she should be sent away--for she made my house miserable.” “And yet--and yet, Mr. Leigh----. Oh, don’t you see how things contradict each other? She made your house miserable, and yet---- when your wife was dead, and you were free----” He looked at her, growing paler and paler. “And yet!” he said. “I know what you mean. That is the infernal art of it. My own folly has cut the ground from beneath my feet, and put weapons into every hand against me. I know--I know.” Again there came into Bee’s mind the words she had heard last night--“He does not deny it.” And yet he was denying it with all his might! Denying, and not denying--what? The girl’s brain was all in a maze, and she could not tell. “You see?” said Mrs. Kingsward, gently. “Oh, I am sorry for you in my heart. Perhaps you were led into--a connection that you feel not to be--desirable. That I can understand. But that you should think you could save yourself by means of an innocent girl, almost a child, and impose yourself on a family that had no suspicions!--oh, Mr. Leigh, Mr. Leigh! you ought to have died sooner than have done that!” He looked at her piteously for a moment, and then a dreadful sort of smile came upon his face. “I allow,” he said, “that that would have been the best.”