“Bah! I am lying,” he said softly; “why should I? Between you and me, Constance, there should be nothing but truth. We at least should be sincere one to the other. You are right, I have brought you something which should have been yours long ago.”
She looked at him with wondering eyes.
“You are going to give me the letters?”
“I am going to give them to you,” he said. “With the destruction of this little packet falls away the last link which held us together.”
He had taken a little bundle of letters, tied with a faded ribbon, from his pocket and held them out to her. Even in that salt-odorous air the perfume of strange scents seemed to creep out from those closely written sheets as they fluttered in the breeze. Lady Deringham clasped the packet with both hands, and her eyes were very bright and very soft.
“It is not so, Victor,” she murmured. “There is a new and a stronger link between us now, the link of my everlasting gratitude. Ah! you were always generous, always quixotic! Someday I felt sure that you would do this.”
“When I left Europe,” he said, “you would have had them, but there was no trusted messenger whom I could spare. Yet if I had never returned they were so bestowed that they would have come into your hands with perfect safety. Even now, Constance, will you think me very weak when I say that I part with them with regret? They have been with me through many dangers and many strange happenings.”
“You are,” she whispered, “the old Victor again! Thank God that I have had this one glimpse of you! I am ashamed to think how terrified I have been.”
She held out her hand impulsively. He took it in his and, with a glance at her servants, let it fall almost immediately.
“Constance,” he said, “I am going away now. I have accomplished what I came for. But first, would you care to do me a small service? It is only a trifle.”