She sighed. "Yes, of course, uncle ought to know the truth. I hope there is nobody else at all." She pressed his hand. "I so much want all that horror buried--buried deep. I am very happy now, dear, but I shall be happier still when you have satisfied that curious mind of yours and found out everything, and stamped down the earth upon it all." She continued her reading. Quite recently, however, (the letter went on) facts have come to my knowledge which have led me to change my decision. I do not mean that I shall publish what I discovered, but that I have determined to approach you and ask you for a private statement. If you have anything to say which would place the matter in another light, I can imagine no reason why you should withhold it. I expect, then, to hear from you when and where I may call upon you; unless you would prefer the interview to take place at my hotel. In either case I desire that Mr. Cupples, whom you will remember, and who has read the enclosed document, should be present also. Faithfully yours, PHILIP TRENT. "What a very stiff letter!" she said. "Now I am sure you couldn't have made it any stiffer in your own rooms." Trent slipped the letter and enclosure into a long envelop. "This thing mustn't run any risk of going wrong. It would be best to send a special messenger with orders to deliver it into his own hands. If he's away it oughtn't to be left." She nodded. "I can arrange that. Wait here for a little." When Mrs. Manderson returned, he was hunting through the music-cabinet. She sank on the carpet beside him in a wave of dark brown skirts. "Tell me something, Philip," she said. "If it is among the few things that I know." "When you saw uncle last night, did you tell him about--about us?" "I did not," he answered. "I remembered you had said nothing about telling any one. It is for you--isn't it?--to decide whether we take the world into our confidence at once or later on." "Then will you tell him?" She looked down at her clasped hands. "I wish _you_ to tell him. Perhaps if you think you will guess why. There! that is settled." She lifted her eyes again to his, and for a time there was silence between them. He leaned back at length in the deep chair. "What a world!" he said. "Mabel, will you play something on the piano that expresses mere joy, the genuine article, nothing feverish or like thorns under a pot, but joy that has decided in favor of the universe. It's a mood that can't last altogether, so we had better get all we can out of it." She went to the instrument and struck a few chords while she thought. Then she began to work with all her soul at the theme in the last movement of the Ninth Symphony which is like the sound of the opening of the gates of Paradise. CHAPTER XIV DOUBLE CUNNING