old keenness in business matters. It
could not be that remorse on the subject of Wyvern was behind it. "You
sent him to his death," she had said, in the first agony of her
desolation. No, she could not think that compunction on that head would
weigh very deep with him. Rather would he regard it as matter for
congratulation.

To Warren she had taken an unaccountable dislike, consistent with that
first instinct of distrust which had come upon her at the time of the
dread revelation. His visits had become rather frequent, but as most of
their time was spent closeted alone with her father she supposed that
their purport was business, and business only. But now she was only
coldly civil to him, no longer cordial. The gloom of her horizon was
black all round, without sign of a break. Her days could be got through
somehow in the ordinary way, but--oh, the agony of her nights, of her
awakening from dreams of the blissful past to the cold dead reality of
the present and future!

She had not seen Warren's precious accomplice, to hear the news from his
own mouth. Warren had never intended she should, and made excuse to the
effect that Bully Rawson had been obliged to go up-country again.

She was seated alone one day on the stoep when the bi-weekly post-bag
was brought. Listlessly she got the key, and opened it. There might be
news of his end--further detail; but even from that she shrank. She
opened the bag, and turned out all the correspondence. Most of it was
for her father, and obviously of a business nature; there were two or
three local papers and--

And then Lalante began to sway unsteadily, and, for all her splendid
strength, to feel as if she must sink to the floor. For, at the bottom
of the leather bag, lay one more letter, and it was to herself, directed
in Wyvern's hand.

With trembling fingers she tore it open. Why--what was this? It was
headed "Pietermaritzburg, Natal," and bore a date just seven days old.

What did it mean? What could it mean? It was weeks since Warren had
brought her the news of his sad and violent death, and yet here were
lines penned by his own hand but seven days ago. Had anybody been
playing some cruel practical joke upon her? No. Surely nobody living
would be capable of such barbarity; and then, here was his own
handwriting--clear, strong, unmistakable--looking her in the face.

With a mist before her eyes Lalante managed to decipher its purport,
which was briefly