"This is my brother's," she said, placing it on a table, and turning to the young men. "He sent it to me about a year ago, and asked me to keep it for him, as he was going to South America, and did not want to take it with him. He also sent the key, and I looked over the contents; they are principally letters."
She flung back the lid of the box, and there were bundles of letters, yellow with age, tied up with red tape. There was also a portrait--a faded old portrait of a girl's face.
"Is this the Maltese wife?" asked Foster, taking it up, whereon Monteith sprang to his feet, and also looked to see if it resembled Carmela.
Mrs. Taunton made a gesture of dissent.
"It is Elsie Macgregor."
The young man looked curiously at that face--a quiet, patient face, with love and truth shining through the pure eyes--the face of the woman that had ruined her life to save Leopold Verschoyle from himself. Foster laid it reverently down again amongst the old letters.
"She was a good woman," he said, softly, and cynic as he was, he meant it.
"But the proof--the proof!" said Monteith, impatiently.
Mrs. Taunton rapidly turned over the bundles of letters, and drew from one packet a square slip of yellowish paper, which she handed to Monteith in silence. He took it eagerly, and read the contents--only three lines:
"You have treated me shamefully, and I will never forgive you for it. We women of the South can revenge ourselves, and your life will pay the penalty of your falseness."