On a separate slip, pinned to the letter, was:
"My address will be Mrs. Gaspard Levigne, Breslau, Silesia. If we change soon, I will write to you. God bless and care for you.
"M."
Edward gently replaced the faded letter upon the table; his eyes were wet and his voice changed and unnatural.
"You did not write?"
The general shook his head.
"You did not write?" Edward repeated the question; this time his voice almost agonized in the weight of emotion. Again the general shook his head, fearing to trust his voice. The young man gazed upon him long and curiously and was silent.
"I wrote five years later," said Evan, presently. "It was the best I could do. You cannot judge the ante-bellum southern planter by him to-day. I was a king in those times! I had ambition. I looked to the future of my child and my family! All was lost; all perished in the act of a foolish girl, infatuated with a music master. I can forgive now, but over me have rolled waves enough in thirty years to wear away stone. The war came on; I carried that letter from Manassas to Appomattox and then I wrote. I set inquiries afoot through consuls abroad. No voice has ever raised from the silence. My child is dead."
"Perhaps not," said Edward, gently; "perhaps not. If there is any genius in European detective bureaus that money can command, we shall know—we shall know."
"If she lived she would have written. I cannot get around that. I know my child. She could not remain silent nearly thirty years."
"Unless silenced by circumstances over which she had no control," continued Edward, "and every side of this matter has presented itself to me. Your daughter had one firm, unchanging friend—my uncle, John Morgan. He has kept her secret—perhaps her child. Is it not possible that he has known of her existence somewhere; that she has been all along informed of the condition and welfare of the child—and of you?" Evan did not reply; he was intently studying the young man.