"'How can I speak?' he murmured. 'What can I say?'
"'Speak the truth,' I said, 'and do not spare me. I deserve no mercy. I had none upon her; I cannot expect her to have any upon me. But an imputation has been cast upon me, an infamous, revolting imputation, and I must clear myself of it. That done, I shall not care what becomes of me. I have not told you of the last letter I received from her, the only letter she has written to me since we parted. In that letter she brings a horrible charge against me, instigated by some villain who bears me ill will, and I insist upon my right to defend myself.'
"I would have said more, but my emotion overpowered me.
"'She will not hear you,' said my friend sadly.
"'She has told me so in her letter,' I replied; 'but you can give me her address, and I will write to her.'
"'It will be useless,' he said, 'quite useless, I grieve to say.'
"'You mean that she will return the letter to me unopened; but I will not rest until she receives my denial of the crime of which she believes me guilty.'
"'She will never receive it,' he said in a solemn tone. 'Cannot you guess the truth?'
"'Good God!' I cried, a despairing light breaking upon me.
"'I can keep it from you no longer,' said my friend; 'sooner or later it must be spoken. She had been for a long time in bad health, as you know; it was impossible to disguise it--her state was serious. The only hope for her lay in a change of climate and in perfect freedom from mental anxiety. In my answer to your letter informing me of your misfortunes at this fatal place I told you I had something of a grave nature to attend to. It concerned your wife. A secret sorrow which she did not impart to me had aggravated her condition, which had become so alarming that the doctor held out no hope of recovery. She had another terrible grief to contend with. Your child--but I cannot go on.'