“Have you made any further enquiries?”

“Yes, uselessly.  There is a rumour that Mrs. Weston, too, is dead.  A lady who used to know them tells me that she is certain she heard of her death—­in England, she thinks, but upon being questioned was quite at sea as to where or when or even as to the original source of her information.  She remembers ‘hearing it’ and that’s all.  Then I sought for the aunts, the maiden ladies whom Molly visited in California.  They too are gone, the older died during the time I lay ill in the hospital.  The younger one was not quite bright, I believe, and was taken away to live with some relatives in the East.  It was not Molly’s mother who fetched her.  It was a man, a very kind man whom the old lady, my informant, had never seen before.  She said he had a queer name.  She could not remember it, but thought he was a physician.  I imagine that the kind friend was an asylum doctor.”

“Very likely.  And could your informant tell you nothing of the niece—­if Molly had visited there?”

“She remembered her last visit very well but her memories were of no value.  She was a sweet, pretty child, she said, and she often wondered how she came to have such a homely mother.  She evidently disliked Mrs. Weston very much, and when I asked her if she had ever heard of Molly’s death she said no, but that she was not a bit surprised as she had always predicted that the pretty, little, white thing would be worried into an early grave.  I noticed the word ‘white’ and asked her about it, for the Molly I knew had a lovely colour.  Her memory became confused when I pressed her, but she seemed quite sure that the girl who came that winter with her mother was a very pale girl—­looked as if she might have come south for her health.”

“All of which goes to prove—­”

“Yes—­I know.  Poor Molly!  Poor little girl!  I believe in my heart that our mad marriage killed her.  Without me constantly with her, the fear of her mother, perhaps the doubt of me, the burden of the whole disastrous secret was too much.  And it was my fault, Willits—­all my fault!” He turned to the window to hide his working face.  “Do you wonder,” he added softly, “that her poor little wraith comes back to trouble me?”

“Come, come, no need to be morbid!  You made a mistake, but you have paid.  As for the doubt which troubles you—­it is but the figment of a tired brain.  The mother could have had no possible reason for deceiving you.  You were no longer an ineligible student—­and the girl loved you.  Besides, there was the legal tie.  Would any woman condemn her daughter to a false position for life?  And without reason?  The idea is preposterous.  Come now, admit it!”

“Oh, I admit it!  My reasoning powers are still unimpaired.  But reason has nothing to do with that kind of mental torture.  It is my soul that has been sick; it is my soul that must be cured.  And to come back to the very point from which we started, I believe I shall find that cure here—­in Coombe.”