There was no chance to misunderstand him. Foorgat Bey--he knew the truth, and had known it all these years. “Excellency,” she said, “if through me, Claridge Pasha--” “One moment, madame,” he interrupted, and, opening a drawer, took out a letter. “I think that what you would say may be found here, with much else that you will care to know. It is the last news of Claridge Pasha--a letter from him. I understand all you would say to me; but he who has most at stake has said it, and, if he failed, do you think, madame, that you could succeed?” He handed her the letter with a respectful salutation. “In the hour he left, madame, he came to know that the name of Foorgat Bey was not blotted from the book of Time, nor from Fate’s reckoning.” After all these years! Her instinct had been true, then, that night so long ago. The hand that took the letter trembled slightly in spite of her will, but it was not the disclosure Nahoum had made which caused her agitation. This letter she held was in David Claridge’s hand, the first she had ever seen, and, maybe, the last that he had ever written, or that any one would ever see, a document of tears. But no, there were no tears in this letter! As Hylda read it the trembling passed from her fingers, and a great thrilling pride possessed her. If tragedy had come, then it had fallen like a fire from heaven, not like a pestilence rising from the earth. Here indeed was that which justified all she had done, what she was doing now, what she meant to do when she had read the last word of it and the firm, clear signature beneath.