eems, and, fearing mischief, he immediately
forced the door open and ran pell-mell into your cousin, noble fellow,
who was then bringing you down-stairs. If he had been one moment later
the woman would have been burned to death, and we would never have got
this deposition. Cobb wouldn't have been the first to weaken, you may be
sure of that. But after she had told the whole story, why, there was no
use in holding out. Badly burned? No, strange to say, she was not badly
burned, but frightened out of her wits. The nervous shock was too much
for her and soon led to fatal results. Cobb will go to prison."

I made no reply. I could not have found words to express the thoughts
that came trooping through my brain.

"I have to tell you," he continued, "that your cousin left a will
bequeathing to you his father's house and a number of valuable
paintings."

I turned away and burning tears of sorrow came to my eyes. It was indeed
a sad inheritance--the earthly part of his great riches--and of little
moment to me. I could not bear to think or speak of it then, and I
begged my friend to hide the will from my sight until time might give me
strength to read it with composure.

One evening in early spring Hester and I were walking along the shore of
the Mediterranean at Marseilles. I had been traveling through southern
Europe since my recovery, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Earl. Hester had
recently joined us in this ancient city of Provence. The sun was sinking
below the distant horizon of water, and his shafts, glancing from the
western edge of the sea, shot far into the immeasurable reaches above
us. We stood in silence while the great wall of night loomed into the
zenith, and then fell westward through the luminous slope of heaven. The
broad terrace from which we viewed the scene was quite deserted.

"If it is a hopeless love I cherish, let me know it now, Hester," I said
as we turned to go. "I cannot wait any longer."

"You can wait half an hour longer, I am sure," she said, hurrying me
along. "We will be at home, then."

Some months after Hester had become my wife we received a call in London
from our old friend, Mr. Murmurtot.

"You have been playing in a great life drama," said he to Hester, "and
I, too, have had a part in it. Lest you may think that it was the
fool's part, let me tell you that I am the man who arrested the Count de
Montalle."

"And the man who brought Fenlon to justice?" I asked.

"The same. He confe