o explain your object as briefly as possible.
I have much to do this evening, and my time is hardly my own."

Waring gazed fixedly at the speaker for a few seconds before he replied.
Like most of his profession, he was an acute physiognomist, and in that
brief space he fathomed much of the character of the man who had rivaled
him successfully. He confessed honestly to himself that there were
grounds, if not excuse, for Cecil's infatuation; but he shrank from
thinking of the danger which she had escaped so narrowly.

"Yes, I will be as brief as possible," Mark answered at length. "Neither
of us will be tempted to prolong this interview unnecessarily. I have
promised to deliver a letter to you, and when you have read it I shall
have but very few words to say."

A stronger proof than Keene had ever yet given of superhuman control
over his emotions was the fact that, neither by quivering of eyelid,
change of color, or motion of muscle, did he betray the faintest
astonishment or concern as he took the letter from Waring, and
recognized Cecil's hand on the cover. It was not a long epistle, for it
scarcely extended beyond two sides of a note-sheet. The writing was
hurried, and in places almost illegible: it had entirely lost the firm,
even character which usually distinguished it, from which a very
moderate graphiologist might have drawn successful auguries. Perhaps
this was the reason that Royston read it through twice slowly. As he did
so his countenance altered fearfully; the deadly white look of dangerous
passion overspread it all, and his eyes began to gleam. Yet still he
spoke calmly--"You knew of this being written?"

"I am happy to say I was more than passively conscious of it," Mark
replied. "I did all in my power to bring about the result that you are
now made aware of, and I thank God that I did not fail."

While the other was speaking Royston was tearing up the paper he held
into the smallest shreds, and dropping them one by one. The act might
have been involuntary, but seemed to have a savage viciousness about it,
as if a living thing were being tortured by those cruel fingers. (The
poor letter! whatever its faults might have been, it surely deserved a
better fate: it was doubtless not a model of composition, but some of
the epistles which have moved us most in our time, either for joy or
sorrow, might not in this respect emulate Montague or Chapone.) Still he
controlled himself, with a mighty effort, enough t