ence.

Then he withdrew the two letters from the large envelope and opened one
of them.

* * * * *

He read them through once--twice--three times--four. Then he began again.
He had read them a dozen times before he closed them. He had read them
word by word, poring over each character, each turn of phrase, as a man
might pore over an enigma or a document written in a foreign language of
which he only knew stray words. If his hands had shaken at first, he had
not turned a page before his whole body was shaking and his palms, his
forehead, his hair were damp with cold dew. He had uttered one sharp,
convulsed exclamation like a suffocated cry--then he went on
reading--reading--reading--and shuddering as he read. They were not long
letters, but after he had read them once he understood them, and each
time he read them again he understood them better. Yes, he could
translate them. They were the farewells of a man tossed by a whirlwind of
passionate remorseful grief. The child had been loved--her very purity
had been loved while she had been destroyed and deceived. The writer
poured forth heart-sick longing and heart-sick remorse. He had not at
first meant to conceal from her that he was not a free man--then he had
lost control over his very being--and he had lost his soul. When she had
discovered the truth and had not even reproached him but had stood
silent--without a word--and gazed at him with her childish, agonised,
blue-flower eyes--he had known that if men had souls his was damned.
There was no pardon--he could ask none--pardon would not undo--death
itself would not undo what he had done. "Margery! Margery! Oh! child--God
hear me if there is God to hear--I loved you--I love you--Death will not
undo that either."

He was going abroad to join his wife. He spoke of the ship he sailed on.
Latimer knew its name and who had sailed in it. In the second letter he
besought her to let him see and speak one word to her--but knew she would
not grant his prayer. He had seen her in the street, and had not dared to
approach. "I did not fear what a man might fear from other women," he
wrote. "I felt that it might kill you, suddenly to see me near when you
could not escape."

And after he had read it a third time Latimer realised a ghastly truth.
The man who wrote had gone away unknowing of the blackness of the tragedy
he had left behind. He plainly had not known the secret Death itself