reach me. Now, Mr. Harley, tell me of this wonderful discovery of yours.”
Harley inclined his head gravely, and in that succinct fashion which he had at command acquainted Madame with the result of his two experiments. As he completed the account:
“Ah,” she sighed, and lay back upon her pillows, “so to-night he is again a free man, the poor Colin Camber. And his wife is happy once more?”
“Thank God,” I murmured. “Her sorrow was pathetic.”
“Only the pure in heart can thank God,” said Madame, strangely, “but I, too, am glad. I have written, here”—she pointed to a little heap of violet note-paper upon a table placed at the opposite side of the bed—“how glad I am.”
Harley and I stared vaguely across at the table. I saw Val Beverley glancing uneasily in the same direction. Save for the writing materials and little heap of manuscript, it held only a cup and saucer, a few sandwiches, and a medicine bottle containing the prescription which Dr. Rolleston had made up for the invalid.
“I am curious to know what you have written, Madame,” declared Harley.
“Yes, you are curious?” she said. “Very well, then, I will tell you, and afterward you may read if you wish.” She turned to me. “You, my friend,” she whispered, and reaching over she laid her jewelled hand upon my arm, “you have spoken with Ysola de Valera this afternoon, they tell me?”
“With Mrs. Camber?” I asked, startled. “Yes, that is true.”
“Ah, Mrs. Camber,” murmured Madame. “I knew
