The man was mad to marry me. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. And this damning evidence―’ with a brusque gesture at the portrait ‘―must also be destroyed. “You propose, then,” she remarked, “that I shall still be saddled with a pseudo husband. Never was there another girl like this one. Nor can we. . But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him.
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