How long he remained there he never knew.  It seemed a whole lifetime later when he began to realize things—­to know where he was—­to remember.

“Oh, God!” he said.  “Oh, God!”

He picked up the letter and read it all over again, weighing every word.

Who was this thief who had stolen his wife?  Hector?  Hector?  Yes, it was Lord Bracondale; he remembered now he had heard him called that at Beechleigh.  He would like to kill him.  But was he a thief, after all? or was not—­he—­Josiah the thief?  To have stolen her happiness, and her life.  Her young life that might have been so fair, though how did he know that at the time!  He had never thought of such things.  She was what he desired, and he had bought her with gold.  No, he was not a thief, he had bought her with gold, and because of that she was going to keep to her bargain, and make him a true and faithful wife.

“Oh, God!” he said again.  “Oh, God!”

Presently the business method of his life came back to him and helped him.  He must think this matter over carefully and see if there was any way out.  It all looked black enough—­his future, that but an hour ago had seemed so full of promise.  He rang for the waiter and gave orders to have the breakfast things taken away.  That accomplished, he requested that he should not be disturbed upon any pretext whatsoever.  And then, drawn up to his writing-table, he began deliberately to think.

Yes, from the beginning Theodora had been good and meek and docile.  He remembered a thousand gentle, unselfish things she had done for him.  Her patience, her kindness, her unfailing sympathy in all his ills, the consideration and respect with which she treated him.  When—­when could this thing have begun?  In Paris?  Only these short weeks ago—­was love so sudden a passion as that?  Then he turned to the letter again and once more read it through.  Poor Theodora, poor little girl, he thought.  His anger was gone now; nothing remained but an intolerable pain.  And this lord—­of her own class—­her own class!  How that thought hurt.  What of him?  He was handsome and young, and just the mate for Theodora.  And she had said good-bye to him, and was going to do her best to make him—­Josiah—­happy.  He gave a wild laugh.  Oh, the mockery of it all, the mockery of it all!  Well, if she could renounce happiness to keep her word, what could he do for her in return?  She must never know of the mistake she had made in putting the letters into the wrong envelopes.  That he could save her from.  But the man?  He would know—­for he must have got the note intended for him—­Josiah.  What must be done about that?  He thought and thought.  And at last he drew a sheet of paper forward and wrote, in his neat, clerklike hand, just a few lines.

And these were they: