Mrs. Kynaston was looking at her fixedly; her anger seemed to have died away.
"Yes," she said, "it was Monsieur D'Arblet who gave them to you."
"That was his name, D'Arblet. I did not like the man; but he bothered me until I foolishly undertook his commission. I am sorry now that I did so, as it seems to vex you so much; but I do not think there are letters in the parcel, and I certainly have not opened it."
Helen was silent again for a minute, looking at her intently.
"I don't believe you," she said; "they are my letters, sure enough, and you have read them. What woman would not do so in your place? and you know that they will ruin me with my husband."
"It is you yourself that tell me so!" cried Vera, impatiently, beginning to lose her temper. "I do not even know what you are talking about!"
"Miss Nevill!" cried Helen, suddenly changing her tone; "give that parcel to me, I entreat you."
"I am very sorry, Mrs. Kynaston; I cannot possibly do so."
"Oh yes, you can—you will," said Helen, imploringly. "What can it matter to you now? It is I who am his wife; you cannot get any good out of a mere empty revenge. Why should you spoil my chance of winning his heart? I know well enough that he loves you, but——"
"Mrs. Kynaston, pray, pray recollect yourself; do not say such words to me!" cried Vera, deeply distressed.