It was Elena's note to her husband, written on the night she left him, brought by her husband to Silverwood, left on the library table, used as a bookmark by Desboro, discovered and kept by its finder, Mrs. Hammerton, for future emergencies.
Elena re-read it now with sickened senses, and knew that in the eyes of this young girl she was utterly and irretrievably damned.
"Did you write that?" whispered Jacqueline, with lips scarcely under control.
"I—you do not understand——"
"Did you know that when I was a guest under Mr. Desboro's roof everything that he and you said in the library was overheard? Do you know that you have been watched—not by me—but even long before I knew you—watched even at the opera——"
Elena drew a quick, terrified breath; then the surging shame mantled her from brow to throat.
"That was Mrs. Hammerton!" she murmured. "I warned Jim—but he trusted her."
Jacqueline turned cold all over.
"He is your—lover," she said mechanically.
Elena looked at her, hesitated, came a step nearer, still staring. Her visage and her bearing altered subtly. For a moment they gazed at each other. Then Elena said, in a soft, but deadly, voice: