Your own most loving Virgie.
P.S.—Hugs and kisses to my old Tony. I hope the bat is satisfactory.
While this letter was being read, there was complete stillness in the room. The writer stood in the window, her back turned to Gaunt. He, when he had finished reading, let the hand which held the paper drop between his knees, while he sat staring upon the motionless figure of his wife. He could not doubt that the letter was spontaneous. She had evidently no idea at all of his demanding to see it. But, if it were true, then what was he? Had he made the greatest mistake of his life?
"What induced you," he demanded huskily, "to write such a letter as this?"
She turned round, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"If you had written as you felt about me and my treatment of you——"
"But I cannot do that. I am bound to be loyal to you," she said quietly. "You know it. Besides, I may suffer, and perhaps I deserve it. They never shall, if I can help it."
"But they shall, and can," he snarled. "This child will suffer if she never sees you again—and she never shall. No, by——"
He checked the oath. What was he saying? What was he thinking? There stood before him a dauntless creature, submissive but utterly unconquered. Was he going to find his pleasure in torturing her?... His head swam. Yet the perverse devil in him drove him on. "That's part of my plan," he said, "part of my scheme to pay your mother in full. You will never set eyes on any of them again. I told you yesterday—it is a life-sentence."
She answered gravely: "Yes, you told me that."