"If I refuse your request I do so in order that I may not rashly accuse the innocent. When I have verified my suspicions, you shall know the truth: for, if I am not mistaken, no one will have more right to the knowledge than yourself. And then," she added, with a melancholy smile, "then it may be that you will find your desire for justice evaporating."
CHAPTER XV A PACKET OF OLD LETTERS
For more than an hour after the departure of Idris and Beatrice, Lorelie remained where they had left her. She had sunk into a deep reverie, which, judged by the expression of her face, was of a painful character.
"Whence did Ivar obtain that vase?" she murmured. "He has always refused to tell. 'Take it, and ask no questions,' has always been his answer. "'That urn,'" she continued, repeating Idris' words, "'formed a part of the treasure that led to a murder. Whoever gave you the urn was either the assassin, or obtained it through the agency of the assassin.' Ivar gave it to me, but he was not the assassin. No! the deed was wrought by the hand of one who escaped from the wreck of the Idris. Let me read those letters again in the light of the new knowledge acquired to-day."
She rose, and from a drawer in a cabinet took a packet of letters.
"What would Idris Breakspear give to read these!" she murmured. "But the day is not far distant when I must put them into his hands; and then," she faltered, "and then—how great will be his contempt for me!"
Carrying the letters to the table she sat down and untied the thread that bound them.
The first one was written in a woman's hand; and the envelope containing it bore the words, "To my daughter Lorelie."