Madame leaned a little towards Duncan, and with her hand upon his arm whispered a question.
"My letters, Duncan! What became of them?"
He sighed.
"I was a little rash, perhaps," he said, "but—they were all I had left. They were with me at Colenso, in an envelope, sealed and addressed, to be burnt unopened. When I was hit, I got a Red Cross man to cut them out of my coat and destroy them."
Madame de Melbain looked at him for a moment, and her eyes were soft with unshed tears. Then she turned away, though her hand still rested upon his.
"Duncan," she said quietly, "don't think that I mind. You did all that you could, and indeed I would rather that you cared so much. But the letters were not destroyed."
For a moment he failed to realize the import of her words.
"Not destroyed?" he repeated, a little vaguely.
"No!" she answered. "They came into the hands of some one in London. Terrible things have happened in connexion with them. Duncan, if you will listen to me quietly, I will tell you about it. Sit down, dear."
She saw the gathering storm. The man's face was black with anger. He was still a little dazed however.
"You mean—that the man to whom I trusted them——"
"He kept them for his own purpose," she said softly.
"Don't look like that, Duncan. He has paid his debt. He is dead!"
"And the letters?"
"We do not know. My husband's advisers are
