"I am secure on that point. Larcher knew that I was in the garden on that night, and may have thought I dropped it. He will not dare to accuse me of the crime. If he did," continued Hilliston, his brow growing black, "I could turn the tables on him in a manner he little expects. There is more evidence against him than against me." "But if they learn that I was with you on that night?" "They will never learn. No one saw you there. If they did, what does it matter? Louisa Sinclair is dead. You need have no fear of being recognized. I'll answer for that." "It does not matter to me if I am known or not," said Mrs. Hilliston gloomily; "I have done with life." "My dear, the doctor says you will recover." "I shall not recover," said the sick woman, with emphasis. "Oh, do not deceive yourself, Francis! I shall never rise from this sick bed to be an object of horror and pity to you." "My dear----" "You never loved me. You only married me out of pity. At Horriston you refused to make me your wife, and it was only when I returned from America a rich woman that you did so. Pity," she said, with a scornful laugh, "no, not pity, but necessity. You would have been ruined but for my money." "I admit it, Louisa, and I am deeply grateful to you for the way in which you have helped me. I can never repay you for saving my name and credit." "You can, Francis. Get me my dressing case." "Louisa, you cannot----" "I insist upon being obeyed," she said imperiously. "Get me my dressing case." With great reluctance he brought it from a distant table and placed it on a chair by the bedside. In obedience to her directions he opened it, and took therefrom a sealed envelope. "In there," she said, as he held it in his hand, "is an account of all I saw on that fatal night. You must send that letter to Captain Larcher when I am dead." "Louisa, do you wish to ruin me?" "I wish to save you, Francis. Do not deceive yourself into a belief that the investigation is at an end. Claude may cease to meddle with the matter, for he is in love with Jenny, and will probably marry her, for by this time, according to you, he knows who she is. But I am afraid of Spenser Tait. He will hunt you down; he will urge Larcher to find out the truth. If it comes to that, send them my account of the matter." "It will ruin me," he said again. "It will save you," she repeated. "Do not be foolish, Francis. You can read it before sending it away." "But you?" "I shall be dead. I feel sure I shall not live. Promise me that if the worst comes you will send that letter." "I promise," he said, sorely against his will, "but it will not be sent: you will live." "I don't think so, Francis. I know better than the doctor. Now kiss me, my husband, and leave me to myself." He did so in silence, and took up the dressing-case, whereupon she stopped him. "Let it be," she said quietly: "some of your letters are in it, and I wish to read them. Kiss me again."