enclosure from the envelope, contrasting in bitterness of heart his present mood with the different feeling that formerly possessed him when he was wont to perform that frequent operation. As he did so, another small note fell from under his fingers on to the table. It was Kirke's missing letter — short, and concluding with the damning statement on which so much depended.
The whole circumstances of the case now came back to his recollection. He had always carried Olivia's latest letter about with him, to read over and over again at leisure moments; and he remembered now that the envelope of Kirke's letter, having been overgummed, had been much torn in opening, and he had thrown it away and placed his note inside the envelope of Olivia's letter. There it had lain ever since.
Too late now to repair his mistake; but he must at least acquaint Kirke with his discovery. There had been no communication between them since the day of Kirke's being placed under arrest, and Yorke felt all the embarrassment of their relations as he wrote, "My dear colonel, I have just found your note to me about which this unhappy trouble has arisen. It was inside one received from Mrs. Kirke, where I put it at the time of receipt. I opened the letter accidentally just now, and it fell out. Can nothing be done to withdraw from the unfortunate mistake you have made? Ever yours truly."
CHAPTER XLI.
Two hours after his note was despatched, and as the sun was getting low, Yorke, returning from a saunter through his stable, as he came to the front of his bungalow, met a lady advancing up the little avenue. She wore a thick veil, but no disguise would have concealed her from his eyes. It was Olivia. She walked slowly, as if weak; and as Yorke hurried to meet her over the few paces that separated them, he could see that she looked pale and ill. She held out her hand, which for a moment he grasped tenderly; then, looking at her wan anxious face, he dropped it, and led the way slowly up the veranda steps and into the little sitting-room. There placing a chair for her, he stood opposite, waiting for her to speak.
Olivia raised her veil, and Yorke, gazing on the face so constantly in his thoughts, saw with pain the change which anxiety and sickness had wrought in the familiar features. Each of the two great troubles she had gone through had left its traces, and yet, thought he, she is as beautiful as ever. At last she spoke. "Major Yorke, you must have guessed why I have come to you. It is because of your note to my husband. He thought — that is, I thought — that it might be of more use if I came and spoke to you myself. We are such old friends, you know," she added, with a smile meant to be cheerful, but which to the other appeared inexpressibly sad.
Yorke bowed. "Pray go on," he said; "you must know my desire to serve you in everything."
"It is about this letter which you have found. It seems that he had overlooked having written it you, and incautiously said so. And now he thinks the production of it might prejudice his case seriously; and he is sure you would not wish to do that."
"I am glad he gives me credit for so much good-feeling," replied Yorke, gravely. "I feared he had come to regard me as an enemy. God knows, I would do anything that one man may do for another to help him out of his trouble."
"Ah yes," she said. "I knew we might depend on you as a true friend. And Rupert bade me tender you his humble apologies if he had said anything in your disfavour; and he is sure you would make allowances for him, knowing how sorely he had been tried. These were his very words. And oh! Major Yorke, you know how much that means from him. You know what a proud man he is ——"
"Pray don't say a word on that score," said he, interrupting her. "I am glad, of course, to hear of his kindly feeling, but I wanted no apology. And it is about him and not me you want to speak. Pray go on, and let me know what it is I can do."
"That is what I am coming to," she said. Then, speaking with hesitation, and scanning his features anxiously, she continued —— "It is about this unfortunate letter. Rupert thinks he can clear himself of everything else, and that, as nobody knows of its existence but yourself, it would not be too late to prevent the thing going further. So he thought — I thought — that if I came myself and asked you, you would not mind — you would not mind — giving it back — to me." Making this appeal in flattering accents, she yet laid a stress on the last word, and looked at him with a pleading face.
But Yorke stood silently before her,
