to know of her husband's death, besides the reason
you have just mentioned?"

"I have."

"A reason connected with that subject which
must not be mentioned between us yet?— which
may never be mentioned to Laura at all?"

She dwelt on the last words, meaningly.
When I answered her, in the affirmative, I dwelt
on them too.

Her face grew pale. Tor a while, she looked
at me with a sad, hesitating interest. An
unaccustomed tenderness trembled in her dark
eyes and softened her firm lips, as she glanced
aside at the empty chair in which the dear
companion of all our joys and sorrows had been
sitting.

"I think I understand," she said. " I think
I owe it to her and to you, Walter, to tell her
of her husband's death."

She sighed, and held my hand fast for a
moment— then dropped it abruptly, and left the
room. On the next day, Laura knew that his
death had released her, and that the error
and the calamity of her life lay buried in his
tomb.

His name was mentioned among us no more.
Thenceforward, we shrank from the slightest approach
to the subject of his death; and, in the
same scrupulous manner, Marian and I avoided
all further reference to that other subject,
which, by her consent and mine, was not to be
mentioned between us yet. It was not the less
present to our minds— it was rather kept alive
in them by the restraint which we had imposed
on ourselves. We both watched Laura more
anxiously than ever; sometimes waiting and
hoping, sometimes waiting and fearing, till the
time came.

By degrees, we returned to our accustomed
way of life: it was the best, the only means
in our power of helping Laura to look away
again from that past sorrow and suffering which
the inevitable disclosure had recalled to her
mind. We all wanted the quiet and repose
which we had now found. I resumed the
daily work, which had been suspended during
my absence in Hampshire. Our new lodgings
cost us more than the smaller and less convenient
rooms which we had left; and the claim
thus implied on my increased exertions was
strengthened by the doubtfulness of our future
prospects. Emergencies might yet happen which
would exhaust our little fund at the banker's;
and the work of my hands might be, ultimately,
all we had to look to for support. More permanent
and more lucrative employment than had
yet been offered to me was a necessity of our
position — a necessity for which I now diligently
set myself to provide.

It must not be supposed that the interval of
rest and seclusion of which I am now writing,
entirely suspended, on my part, all pursuit of
the one absorbing purpose with which my
thoughts and actions are associated in these
pages. That purpose was, for months and
months yet, never to relax its claims on me.
The slow ripening of it still left me a measure
of precaution to take, an obligation of
gratitude to perform, and a doubtful question to
solve.

The measure of precaution related, necessarily,
to the Count. It was of the last importance
to ascertain, if possible, whether his
plans committed him to remaining in England
— or, in other words, to remaining within my
reach. I contrived to set this doubt at rest by
very simple means. His address in St. John's
Wood being known to me, I inquired in the
neighbourhood; and having found out the agent
who had the disposal of the furnished house in
which he lived, I asked if number five, Forest
Road, was likely to be let within a reasonable
time. The reply was in the negative. I was
informed that the foreign gentleman then residing
in the house had renewed his term of occupation
for another six months, and would remain
in possession until the end of June in the
following year. We were then at the beginning
of December only. I left the agent with my
mind relieved from all present fear of the Count's
escaping me.

The obligation I had to perform, took me once
more into the presence of Mrs. Clements. I had
promised to return, and to confide to her those
particulars relating to the death and burial
of Anne Catherick, which I had been obliged
to withhold at our first interview. Changed as
circumstances now were, there was no hindrance
to my trusting the good woman with as much
of the story of the conspiracy as it was necessary
to tell. I had every reason that sympathy
and friendly feeling could suggest to urge on
me the speedy performance of my promise— and
I did conscientiously and carefully perform it.
There is no need to burden these pages with
any statement of what passed at the interview.
It will be more to the purpose to say that the
interview itself necessarily brought to my mind
the one doubtful question still remaining to be
solved— the question of Anne Catherick's parentage
on the father's side.

A multitude of small considerations in connexion
with this subject— trifling enough in
themselves, but strikingly important, when
massed together— had latterly led my mind
to a conclusion which I resolved to verify. I
obtained Marian's permission to write to Major
Donthorne, of Yarneck Hall (where Mrs. Catherick
had lived in service for some years previous
to her marriage), to ask him certain questions.
I made the inquiries in Marian's name,
and described them as relating to matters of personal
interest in her family, which might explain
and excuse my application. When I wrote the
letter, I had no certain knowledge that Major
Donthorne was still alive; I despatched it on
the chance that he might be living, and able and
willing to reply.

After a lapse of two days, proof came, in the
shape of a letter, that the Major was living, and
that he was ready to help us.

The idea in my mind when I wrote to him,
and the nature of my inquiries, will be easily