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“Go on,” said Ormskirk.

But her composure was shattered. “I would have given my life to save her,” the girl babbled. “Ah, you know that I have tried to save her. I was not very much afraid. And it seemed the only way. So I came hither, my Lord, as you see me, to get back the letters before you, too, had come.”

“There is but one woman in the world,” the Duke said, quietly, “for whom you would have done this thing. You and Marian were reared together. Always you have been inseparable, always you have been to each other as sisters. Is this not what you are about to tell me?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Well, you may spare yourself the pains of such unprofitable lying. That Marian Heleigh should have been guilty of a vulgar liaison with, an actor is to me, who know her, unthinkable. No, madam! It was fear, not love, which drove you hither to-night, and now a baser terror urges you to screen yourself by vilifying her. The woman of whom you speak is yourself. The letters were written by you.”

She raised one arm as though a physical blow impended. “No, no!” she cried.

“Madam,” the Duke said, “let us have done with these dexterities. I have the vanity to believe I am not unreasonably obtuse–nor, I submit, unreasonably self-righteous. Love is a monstrous force, as irrational, I sometimes think, as the force of the thunderbolt; it appears neither to select nor to eschew, but merely to strike; and it is not my duty to asperse or to commend its victims. You have loved unworthily. From the bottom of my heart I pity you, and I would that you had trusted me–had trusted me enough–” His voice was not quite steady. “Ah, my dear,” said Ormskirk, “you should have confided all to me this afternoon. It hurts me that you did not, for I am no Pharisee and–God knows!–my own past is not immaculate. I would have understood, I think. Yet as it is, take back your letters, child,–nay, in Heaven’s name, take them in pledge of an old man’s love for Dorothy Allonby.”

The girl obeyed, turning them in her hands, the while that her eyes were riveted to Ormskirk’s face. And in Aprilian fashion she began to smile through her tears. “You are superb, my Lord Duke. You comprehend that Marian wrote these letters, and that if you read them–and I knew of it,–your pride would force you to break off the match, because your notions as to what is befitting in a Duchess of Ormskirk are precise. But you want Marian, you want her even more than I had feared. Therefore, you give me all these letters, because you know that I will destroy them, and thus an inconvenient knowledge will be spared you. Oh, beyond doubt, you are superb.”

“I give them to you,” Ormskirk answered, “because I have seen through your cowardly and clumsy lie, and have only pity for a thing so base as you. I give them to you because to read one syllable of their contents would be to admit I had some faith in your preposterous fabrication.”

But she shook her head. “Words, words, my Lord Duke! I understand you to the marrow. And, in part, I think that I admire you.”

He was angry now. “Eh! for the love of God,” cried the Duke of Ormskirk, “let us burn the accursed things and have no more verbiage!” He seized the papers and flung them into the fire.

Then these two watched the papers consume to ashes, and stood a while in silence, the gaze of neither lifting higher than the andirons; and presently there was a tapping at the door.

“That will be Benyon,” the Duke said, with careful modulations. “Enter, man! What news is there of this Vanringham?”

“He will recover, your Grace, though he has lost much blood. Mr. Vanringham has regained consciousness and took occasion to whisper me your Grace would find the needful papers in his escritoire, in the brown despatch-box.”