“No,” replied Lord Arleigh, “you are not right.  There is no need for me to offer any explanation, and, as I have failed in my object, I will go.”

“You might just as well tell me if you are in love with my little Madaline.  I might make it worth your while to let me know.”

It was with great difficulty that Lord Arleigh controlled his indignation; but he replied, calmly: 

“I have nothing to tell you.”

A look of disappointment came over the dark, handsome face.

“You can keep your secrets,” he said—­“so can I. If you will tell me nothing, neither shall I; but I might make it worth your while to trust me.”

“I have nothing to confide,” returned Lord Arleigh; “all I can say to you on leaving is that I hope you will come to your senses and repent of your past wickedness.”

“I shall begin to think that you are a missionary in disguise,” said Henry Dornham.  “So you will not offer me anything for my secret?” he interrogated.

“No secret of yours could interest me,” rejoined Lord Arleigh abruptly, as he went away.

So, for the second time in his life, he was at the door of the mystery, yet it remained unopened.  The first time was when he was listening to Lord Mountdean’s story, when the mention of the name Dornham should lead to a denouement; the second was now, when, if he had listened to the convict, he would have heard that Madaline was not his child.

He left Chatham sick at heart.  There was no help for him—­his fate was sealed.  Never, while he lived, could he make his beautiful wife his own truly—­they were indeed parted for evermore.  There remained to him to write that letter; should he consent to Madaline’s mother living with her or should he not?

He reflected long and anxiously, and then having well weighed the matter he decided that he would not refuse his wife her request.  He must run the risk, but he would not caution her.

He wrote to Madaline, and told her that he would be pleased if she were pleased, and that he hoped she would be happy with her mother, adding the caution that he trusted she would impress upon her mother the need of great reticence, and that she must not mention the unfortunate circumstances of the family to any creature living.

Madaline’s answer touched him.  She assured him that there was no fear—­that her mother was to be implicitly trusted.  She told him also how entirely she had kept the secret of his separation from her, lest it should add to her mother’s trouble.

“She will know now that I do not live with you, that I never see you, that we are as strangers, but she will never know the reason.”

He was deeply moved.  What a noble girl she was, bearing her troubles so patiently, and confiding them to no human soul!

Then he was compelled to go to Beechgrove—­it was long since he had been there, and so much required attention, he was obliged to go, sorely against his will, for he dreaded the sight of the place, haunted as it was by the remembrance of the love and sorrow of his young wife.  He avoided going as long as possible, but the place needed the attention of a master.