It was a strange letter, and it had apparently been written under stress of great mental excitement. The man might have been in mortal terror when he penned those lines. The warning at the close was a very cry of anguish.
"What do you say now?" asked Olive.
"I can say nothing. We seem to move in a world of mystery."
"You admit that I acted rightly?"
"I admit that you were forced to obey the letter," answered Mallow. "Whether you acted rightly is not quite the same thing."
"You are not just to me," cried Olive, passionately. "I loved my father dearly. He was always so good to me. I should have been wicked to ignore so solemn a command. Had it been only a question of money, I would readily have surrendered it all to Mr. Brock. But my father's dying wish--I could not disregard it, I could not."
"I admit that," said Laurence, reluctantly. "But what a miserable result it is!"
Olive covered her face with her hands. "I know, I know!" she cried. "The sins of the father are visited on the children. Oh, what can there have been in my father's life to make him sacrifice me so cruelly?"
"Mr. Brock was your father's oldest friend. He might, perhaps, know."
"He does not know, for I asked him the very day before this hateful marriage of mine. He could give me no answer. He could not understand the letter. Both in India and in England, he said, my father's life was above reproach."