"I wrote it," he said, with maddening complacency. He put up his glasses and glanced at the top of the page she held out to him. "I wrote it myself, and I can assure you that it is quite right, and a faithful copy. You do not think--" "Think! Think! no, no! This, I mean! Who wrote this?" she cried, awe in her face, and a suppliant tone,--strange as addressed to that man,--in her voice. He was confounded by her vehemence, as well as hampered by his own evil conscience. "The clerk, Mrs. Wigram, the clerk," he said petulantly, still in his fog of selfishness. "The clerk from Messrs. Duggan and Poole's." "Where is he?" she cried out breathlessly. I think she did not believe him. "Where is he?" he repeated in querulous surprise. "Why here, of course. Where should he be, madam? He will witness my signature." Would he? Signatures! It was little of signatures I recked at that moment. I was praying to Heaven that my folly might be forgiven me, and that my lightly planned vengeance might not fall on my own head. "Joy does not kill," I was saying to myself, repeating it over and over again, and clinging to it desperately. "Joy does not kill!" But oh! was it true in the face of that white-lipped woman? "Here!" She did not say more, but gazing at me with great dazed eyes, she raised her hand, and beckoned to me. And I had no choice but to obey--to go nearer to her, out into the light. "Mrs. Wigram," I said hoarsely, my voice sounding to me only as a whisper, "I have news of your late--of your husband. It is good news." "Good news?" Did she faintly echo my words? or, as her face from which all color had passed peered into mine, and searched it in infinite hope and infinite fear, did our two minds speak without need of physical lips? "Good news?" "Yes," I whispered, "he is alive. The Indians did not--" "Alfred!" Her cry rang through the room, and with it I caught her in my arms as she fell. Beard and long hair, and scar and sunburn, and strange dress--these which had deceived others--were no disguise to her--my wife. I bore her gently to the couch, and hung over her in a new paroxysm of fear. "A doctor! Quick! A doctor!" I cried to Mrs. Williams, who was already kneeling beside her. "Do not tell me," I added piteously, "that I have killed her." "No! no! no!" the good woman answered, the tears running down her face. "Joy does not kill!" An hour later this fear had been lifted from me, and I was walking up and down the library alone with my thankfulness; glad to be alone, yet more glad, more thankful still, when John came in with a beaming face. "You have come to tell me--" I cried eagerly, pleased that the tidings had come by his lips--"to go to her? That she will see me?" "Her ladyship is sitting up," he replied. "And Lord Wetherby?" I asked, pausing at the door to put the question. "He left the house at once?" "Yes, my lord, Mr. Wigram has been gone some time." Along the Garonne.