"I wish to save you, Francis. Do not deceive yourself into a belief that the investigation is at an end. Claude may cease to meddle with the matter, for he is in love with Jenny, and will probably marry her, for by this time, according to you, he knows who she is. But I am afraid of Spenser Tait. He will hunt you down; he will urge Larcher to find out the truth. If it comes to that, send them my account of the matter."
"It will ruin me," he said again.
"It will save you," she repeated. "Do not be foolish, Francis. You can read it before sending it away."
"But you?"
"I shall be dead. I feel sure I shall not live. Promise me that if the worst comes you will send that letter."
"I promise," he said, sorely against his will, "but it will not be sent: you will live."
"I don't think so, Francis. I know better than the doctor. Now kiss me, my husband, and leave me to myself."
He did so in silence, and took up the dressing-case, whereupon she stopped him. "Let it be," she said quietly: "some of your letters are in it, and I wish to read them. Kiss me again."
Again he kissed her, and reluctantly left the room. So quiet and self contained was she that he had no inkling of her intention. Had he guessed her fatal resolve, little as was the love he bore her, he would surely have striven to turn her from her purpose. But he guessed nothing, and left her alone, with the devil tempting her.
Good-by, my husband!" she murmured, as the door closed, and then burst into tears. He had gone, she would never see him again, and she moaned over her lost beauty which failed to retain him by her side. He was coldly polite; he was affectionate out of pity, but he had no love for her, and she hungered for the want of it. Her life passed before her, episode after episode, till it stopped short at the spectacle of a closed door, and herself lying alone and deserted in that sickroom.