“Again I believe you, and not without evidence.” He drew towards him a carved sandalwood casket that stood on a small table beside him, opened it, and took out a thin packet of letters which Boris recognized as his own. “I have here a number of your letters to her. I have read them all. They are not ‘love letters,’ but I know from them that you loved her, without hope and without reward. Would you like to have them again? In some ways they are dangerous documents to be in any custody but your own.”
He passed the packet to Boris, who took it with a trembling hand.
“Sir Robert, you are too good—too generous! What can I say?”
“Say nothing. And if you will take my advice put them in the fire. It is the safest place for them.”
Simply as a child Boris obeyed on the instant, and in silence they watched the packet consumed to a little mass of black ashes.
“I have but one letter of hers, sir,” said Boris presently. “The last she ever wrote me, and therefore most precious. It is very brief. Would you—care to read it?”
He unfolded the letter—it was but a half-sheet—with a lingering, reverent touch, and held it towards Sir Robert.
“No, no, keep it, lad. It is yours and sacred,” the old man said after a moment’s hesitation. “As I have said, I believe you and trust you. That was the only one she wrote?”
“Oh, no, sir! There were several others. Mere formal notes like this, in Russian or sometimes in French. I ought to have destroyed them at once—she told me to; and they are lost, or they have been stolen from me.”
“Stolen!”