"Did he come with you? Oh, Marian!"
"Did you suppose he could remain contentedly in town and wait for news? I don't tell you how distracted he was, it is because I fear to agitate you. But if you could have seen his misery and heard his self-reproaches, you would have felt your last doubt swept away. Ali, Louie, a wife should be very slow to doubt a husband's love. She may have a great deal to endure (most wives have), but she should guard her heart against jealousy, which is the worst foe of married life."
"He gave me cause to be jealous, Marian," I said. "You did not go to that dreadful picnic; you did not see his attentions to his old love."
"I know he was foolish, but not guilty. It is a mistake for a married man to be too intimate with an old sweetheart, even if he knows that he only gave her half a love, and that his wife has his entire heart. People are always ready to talk about those who have once been lovers; and Ida Lorimer was weak enough to want a little of the old homage."
"She was more than weak," I said, with a passion that made Marian lift a warning finger. "She is a wicked, bold woman. On Thursday night—after the picnic—she wrote a shameful letter to my husband."
"That letter, Louie, is a puzzle to us all. You referred to it in your farewell note to Ronald; and he, poor fellow, sent me to Ida to know what was meant. He had received no letter from her, and she declares she never wrote one."
"How can she dare to say she did not write it? Marian, you will find the letter in the inner pocket of my hand-bag. Take it and read it for yourself."
She rose to do my bidding; and then, pausing a moment, fixed a steadfast look on my face. "Tell me first, Louie," she said, "how this letter came into your possession."
"It was brought to me by William Greystock. Ronald dropped it in his office on Friday morning."
"It is as I suspected," said Marian, in a low voice. "That man was at the bottom of all this mischief. Well, he will do no more!"