"Olive," he said, "I have been writing a letter this evening--a letter which I want you to deliver for me to-morrow morning."
"Very well, Matthew. You know that I am entirely at your service. To whom is the letter addressed?"
"To Eleanor Lloyd."
"Ah!--then you have made up your mind at last to tell her everything?"
"I have made up my mind to tell her this: that I have discovered that she is not the daughter of Jacob Lloyd, and, consequently, not entitled to his property. But I have not made up my mind to tell her that I've known this fact for more than six months, and have concealed it purposely from her. I cannot tell her that."
"But why do you wish me to take the letter? Why not send it through the post?"
"Because I am too weak at present to put down in writing more than the barest outline of the facts, and I want you to supplement by word of mouth what my letter fails to convey."
"Why not wait till you are a little stronger--till you can tell her, in person, all that it is necessary she should be told?"
"Not one day longer will I wait. Eleanor Lloyd shall know the great secret of her life before she is twenty-four hours older."
"As you will. Perhaps you are right," said Olive, quietly. "There is no reason why Miss Lloyd should be kept in ignorance any longer."