"But such raving is not argument. I thought you remarked that you were here to convince me of the error of my ways." Power produced an envelop, and extracted some papers. "Read!" he said, leaning forward and thrusting the folded sheets before Marten. "The letters quoted there are not in original, of course. I have left those in safe-keeping, and they will be burnt on the day I know for certain that my daughter is married to the man she loves. Read! Note the dates! I need not say another word. I have supplied such brief explanatory passages as are required. I was not aware that Mowlem & Son had tendered other evidence. Though slight, it is helpful." And Marten read, and his face, dark and lowering as he began, soon faded to the tint of old ivory. For his hawk's eyes were perusing the story of his own and Willard's perfidy, and of his wife's revolt, and love, and final surrender. It was soon told. Nancy's pitiful scrawl, left in the hut by the lake, Willard's letter to Mrs. Power, the two cablegrams, and Nancy's two letters from London--these, with Power's notes, giving chapter and verse for his arrival at Newport, his flight with Nancy into the Adirondacks, and her departure with Willard, made up a document hard to disbelieve, almost impossible to gainsay. Some dry and faded strands of white heather had fallen from among the papers to the table, and Marten gave no heed to them at first. Now he knew he was gazing at the remnants of Nancy's bridal bouquet. The husband whom she loathed and had deserted, who was so detestable in her sight that she died rather than remain his wife, did not attempt to deny the truth of that overwhelming indictment. Indeed, its opening passages, laying bare his own scheming, must have convinced him of the accuracy of the remainder. With the painstaking care of one to whom the written word was all-important, he read and reread each letter, particularly Nancy's pathetic farewell. Then, darting one wolfish glance at Power, he thrust his right hand suddenly toward a drawer. Power was prepared for some such movement, and leaped with a lightning spring born of many a critical adventure in wild lands, when a fraction of a second of delay meant all the difference between life and death. Marten was not a weakling; but he was no match for the younger man's well-trained muscles. After a brief struggle the automatic pistol he had taken from its hiding-place was wrested from his grasp.