It was a hard struggle, but it was for her sake:  he mastered his weakness, and forced his trembling voice to submit to his will.

“Is the man whom you are going to marry worthy of this?” he asked, still pointing to the letter.

She answered, firmly:  “More than worthy of it.”

“Marry him, Catherine—­and forget Me.”

The great heart that he had so sorely wounded pitied him, forgave him, answered him with a burst of tears.  She held out one imploring hand.

His lips touched it—­he was gone.

Chapter LI.

Dum Spiro, Spero.

Brisk and smiling, Mrs. Presty presented herself in the waiting-room.  “We have got rid of our enemy!” she announced, “I looked out of the window and saw him leaving the hotel.”  She paused, struck with the deep dejection expressed in her daughter’s attitude.  “Catherine!” she exclaimed, “I tell you Herbert has gone, and you look as if you regretted it!  Is there anything wrong?  Did my message fail to bring him here?”

“No.”

“He was bent on mischief when I saw him last.  Has he told Bennydeck of the Divorce?”

“No.”

“Thank Heaven for that!  There is no one to be afraid of now.  Where is the Captain?”

“He is still in the sitting-room.”

“Why don’t you go to him?”

“I daren’t!”

“Shall I go?”

“Yes—­and give him this.”

Mrs. Presty took the letter.  “You mean, tear it up,” she said, “and quite right, too.”

“No; I mean what l say.”

“My dear child, if you have any regard for yourself, if you have any regard for me, don’t ask me to give Bennydeck this mad letter!  You won’t hear reason?  You still insist on it?”

“I do.”

“If Kitty ever behaves to you, Catherine, as you have behaved to me—­you will have richly deserved it.  Oh, if you were only a child again, I’d beat it out of you—­I would!”

With that outburst of temper, she took the letter to Bennydeck.  In less than a minute she returned, a tamed woman.  “He frightens me,” she said.

“Is he angry?”

“No—­and that is the worst of it.  When men are angry, I am never afraid of them.  He’s quiet, too quiet.  He said:  ’I’m waiting for Mr. Herbert Linley; where is he?’ I said.  ’He has left the hotel.’  He said:  ‘What does that mean?’ I handed the letter to him.  ‘Perhaps this will explain,’ I said.  He looked at the address, and at once recognized your handwriting.  ’Why does she write to me when we are both in the same house?  Why doesn’t she speak to me?’ I pointed to the letter.  He wouldn’t look at it; he looked straight at me.  ‘There’s some mystery here,’ he said; ’I’m a plain man, I don’t like mysteries.  Mr. Linley had something to say to me, when the message interrupted him.  Who sent the message?  Do you know?’ If there is a woman living, Catherine,