Later on a curious feeling came over him—quite a strange and novel feeling. It was as if, while he thought, or rather while his fancies like so many devils played riot in his brain, he could not find the right words in which to clothe his thoughts. He struggled against the feeling. He tried to talk. But the wrong words came from his lips. Then he took a book; yes—he could read. It was nonsense; he shook off the feeling. But he shrank from speaking to any servant, and went to bed.
That night he slept better, and in the morning was less agitated. He breakfasted in his study, and then he went down to his office.
It was the fourth day since he had opened no letters and attended to no business. He remembered this, and tried to shake off the gloomy fit. And then he thought of the coming coup, and tried to bring his thoughts back to their usual channel. How much did he hold of Eldorado Stock? Rising higher day by day. But three days, three short days, before settling-day.
The largest stake he had ever ventured; a stake so large that when he thought of it his spirit and nerve came back to him.
For once—for the last time—he entered his office, holding himself erect, and looking brighter than he had done for days; and he sat down to his letters with an air of resolution.
Unfortunately, the first letter was from the anonymous correspondent.
"She wrote to him to-day; she told him that she could bear her life no longer; she threatened to tell the secret right out; she will have an explanation with him to-morrow at Mrs. L'Estrange's. Do you go down and you will hear the explanation. Be quiet, and the secret."
He started from his chair, the letter in his hand, and looked straight before him. Was it, then, all true? Would that very day give him a chance of finding out the secret between Lawrence Colquhoun and his wife?
He put up his glasses and read the letter—the last of a long series, every one of which had been a fresh arrow in his heart—again and again.
Then he sat down and burst into tears.