Reine has been in Italy three weeks now. Thrice she has written to England to her Uncle Langton relating the story of her escape, and begging for news of himself and Vane.
No answer has come to these eager appeals, and she is half wild with anxiety.
"There is no letter yet, my dear," Mrs. Odell answers, sorrowfully, for she knows of Reine's strange story now. "I will tell you what to do now, Reine. Write to the postmaster there, and ask him for news of your uncle. Perhaps Mr. Langton has gone to another place."
"It is not probable," Reine answers, sighing, but she takes her friend's advice, and writes the letter of inquiry.
This time the answer comes all too soon. Her own three letters are returned unopened, with the information that Mr. Langton is long since dead! The physician encloses a certificate of death.
"He is dead, my dear, kind uncle is dead, Mrs. Odell!" Reine cries, lifting her dark eyes, heavy with grief, to the pale face of her friend.
"My poor darling, I feared as much," the lady answers, compassionately. "Now, darling, you belong wholly to me."
"You forget my husband," Reine answers, through her tears.
And Mrs. Odell, clasping tighter the paper she holds in her hand, speaks no word at first. How can she stab that tender heart yet deeper, already bleeding with the sad news of her uncle's death?
"You will be your uncle's heiress, dear," she says to her presently, thinking to check the flowing tide of grief.