One thing he must attend to at once. Steps must be taken to prevent Mrs. Larue from crossing his daughter's sight even for a moment. See the woman himself he could not; not, at least, until she were dead. He enclosed her billet to her in a sealed envelope, adding the following note, which cost him many minutes to write—
"Madame: The accompanying letter has fallen into the hands of my daughter. She is dangerously ill. I hope that you will have the humanity not to meet her again."
When the housemaid returned from delivering the package he said to her, "Julia, did you give it to Mrs. Larue?"
"Yes sah."
"Did you give it into her own hands?"
"Yes sah. She was in bed, an' I gin it to herself."
"What—how did she look?" asked the Doctor after a moment's hesitation.
"She did'n look nohow. She jess lit a match an' burned the letter up."
The Doctor was aghast at the horrible, hard-hearted corruptness implied by such coolness and forethought. But in point of fact, Mrs. Larue had been startled far beyond her common wont, and was now more profoundly grieved than she had ever been before in her life.