the big envelope," he said, his voice shaking like his
hand. "It has a Swiss stamp."

He swallowed to moisten his throat. Ricardo sprang across the room and
tore open the envelope. There was a long letter enclosed in a
handwriting unknown to him. He read aloud the first lines of the letter:

"I write what I saw and post it tonight, so that no one may be before
me with the news. I will come over tomorrow for the money."

A low exclamation from Hanaud interrupted the words.

"The signature! Quick!"

Ricardo turned to the end of the letter.

"Marthe Gobin."

"She speaks, then! After all she speaks!" Hanaud whispered in a voice
of awe. He ran to the door of the room, opened it suddenly, and,
shutting it again, locked it. "Quick! We cannot bring that poor woman
back to life; but we may still--" He did not finish his sentence. He
took the letter unceremoniously from Ricardo's hand and seated himself
at the table. Over his shoulder Mr. Ricardo, too, read Marthe Gobin's
letter.

It was just the sort of letter, which in Ricardo's view, Marthe Gobin
would have written--a long, straggling letter which never kept to the
point, which exasperated them one moment by its folly and fired them to
excitement the next.

It was dated from a small suburb of Geneva, on the western side of the
lake, and it ran as follows:

"The suburb is but a street close to the lake-side, and a tram runs
into the city. It is quite respectable, you understand, monsieur, with
a hotel at the end of it, and really some very good houses. But I do
not wish to deceive you about the social position of myself or my
husband. Our house is on the wrong side of the street--definitely--yes.
It is a small house, and we do not see the water from any of the
windows because of the better houses opposite. M. Gobin, my husband,
who was a clerk in one of the great banks in Geneva, broke down in
health in the spring, and for the last three months has been compelled
to keep indoors. Of course, money has not been plentiful, and I could
not afford a nurse. Consequently I myself have been compelled to nurse
him. Monsieur, if you were a woman, you would know what men are when
they are ill--how fretful, how difficult. There is not much distraction
for the woman who nurses them. So, as I am in the house most of the
day, I find what amusement I can in watching the doings of my
neighbours. You will not blame me.

"A month ago the house almost directly opposite to us was take