"You understand—I must trouble him no more. And there is no other way.
This winter has proved it. Because death puts an end.
"This letter is for you three only, in all the world. Dear, dear Molly—I sit here like a coward—but I can't go without a sign.—You wouldn't understand me—I used to be so happy as a little child—but since Papa died—since I came here—oh! I am not angry now, not proud—no, no.—It is for love—for love.
"Good-bye—good-bye. You were all so good to me—think of me, grieve for me sometimes.—
"Your ever grateful and devoted
"LAURA."
Next morning early, Helbeck entered the dining-room, where Dr. Friedland was sitting. He approached the doctor with an uncertain step, like one finding his way in the dark.
"You had a letter," he said. "Is it possible that you could show it me—or any part of it? Only a few hours before her death the old relations between myself—and Miss Fountain—were renewed. We were to have been husband and wife. That gives me a certain claim."
Dr. Friedland grew pale.
"My dear sir," he said, rising to meet his host,—"that letter contained a message for my daughter which was not intended for other eyes than hers. I have destroyed it."
And then speech failed him. The old man stood in a guilty confusion.