"No. It seems that she has had one more let-off. But what's the good?"
"How do you mean, what's the good?"
"She'll do it again, of course. She's set her mind upon it. And, one day or another"
"Did she volunteer no confession, this time either, before making the attempt on her life?"
"No. She wrote a few words on a scrap of paper, saying that, on thinking it over, she advised us to ask a certain M. Langernault about the mysterious letters. He was the only friend that she had known her husband to possess, or at any rate the only one whom he would have called, 'My dear fellow,' or, 'My dear friend.' This M. Langernault could do no more than prove her innocence and explain the terrible misunderstanding of which she was the victim."
"But," said Don Luis, "if there is any one to prove her innocence, why does she begin by opening her veins?"
"She doesn't care, she says. Her life is done for; and what she wants is rest and death."
"Rest? Rest? There are other ways in which she can find it besides in death. If the discovery of the truth is to spell her safety, perhaps the truth is not impossible to discover."
"What are you saying, Chief? Have you guessed anything? Are you beginning to understand?"
"Yes, very vaguely, but, all the same, the really unnatural accuracy of those letters just seems to me a sign"
He reflected for a moment and continued:
"Have they reëxamined the erased addresses of the three letters?"
