She knew that Eva watched the arrival of the posts very carefully. When she got outside the office she glanced at the bundle of letters in her hand, and noticed with a start that one of them, addressed to Mr. Cardus, was in Ernest’s handwriting. It bore a Southampton post-mark. What, she wondered, could he be doing at Southampton? He should have been in Guernsey. She walked on briskly to Dum’s Ness, and on her arrival found Dorothy sitting working in the sitting-room. After she had greeted her she handed over the letters. “There is one from Ernest,” she said. “O, I am so glad!” answered Dorothy. “Who is it for?” “For Mr. Cardus. O, here he comes.” Mr. Cardus shook hands with her, and thanked her for bringing the letters, which he turned over casually, after the fashion of a man accustomed to receive large quantities of correspondence of an uninteresting nature. Presently his manner quickened, and he opened Ernest’s letter. Florence fixed her keen eyes upon him. He read the letter; she read his face. Mr. Cardus was accustomed to conceal his emotions, but on this occasion it was clear that they were too strong for him. Astonishment and grief pursued each other across his features as he proceeded. Finally he put the letter down and glanced at an enclosure. “What is it, Reginald, what is it?” asked Dorothy. “It is,” answered Mr. Cardus solemnly, “that Ernest is a murderer and a fugitive.” Dorothy sank into a chair with a groan, and covered her face with her hands. Florence turned ashy pale. “What do you mean?” she said. “Read the letter for yourself, and see. Stop, read it aloud, and the enclosure too. I may have misunderstood.” Florence did so in a quiet voice. It was wonderful how her power came out in contrast to the intense disturbance of the other two. The old man of the world shook like a leaf, the young girl stood firm as a rock. Yet, in all probability, her interest in Ernest was more intense than his. When she had finished, Mr. Cardus spoke again. “You see,” he said, “I was right. He is a murderer and an outcast. And I loved the boy, I loved him. Well, let him go.” “O Ernest, Ernest!” sobbed Dorothy. Florence glanced from one to the other with contempt. “What are you talking about?” she said at last. “What is there to make all this fuss about? ‘Murderer,’ indeed! Then our grandfathers were often murderers. What would you have had him do? Would you have had him give up the woman’s letter to save himself? Would you have had him put up with this other man’s insults about his mother? If he had, I would never have spoken to him again. Stop that groaning, Dorothy. You should be proud of him; he behaved as a gentleman should. If I had the right I should be proud of him;” and her breast heaved and the proud lips curled as she said it. Mr. Cardus listened attentively, and it was evident that her enthusiasm moved him.