Dora was sitting in the library with her husband at post-time on the day of Bothwell's ride to Trevena. Julian Wyllard was at his desk writing, while his wife sat in her favourite window, absorbed in a new book, with the open box from Mudie's at her feet, when the servant brought in the post-bag. Dora watched her husband intently as he unlocked the bag and took out a pile of letters and papers. He looked up as he was sorting the letters, and surprised that earnest expression in his wife's eyes.
"You are expecting some important letter?" he said.
"Yes, I am anxious to hear from Mr. Heathcote," she answered quietly.
It was the first time that name had been spoken by either of them since the scene in the arbour.
"There is your letter, then, in Heathcote's hand, with the Paris post-mark."
"Thank you." She rose, and walked across to the desk to receive her letters. "I hope he has some good news for me."
She went back to the window, and opened Heathcote's letter, standing by the open window in the full light of the September afternoon, her husband watching her all the while. Her face brightened as she read. There was no need for him to ask if the news were good.
"Your letter seems satisfactory," he said, unfolding the Times as he spoke.
"It is a good letter," she answered. "It tells me that Mr. Heathcote has begun to see how wrong he was in suspecting Bothwell. He has evidently made some discovery about that poor girl's fate. He, at any rate, has found out who she is."
"Indeed!" said Wyllard, deep in a leading-article. "He has found out who she is?"