not long in writing the note. When it was done she rose from the writing-table, and handed the open sheet of paper to Sir Percival. He bowed, took it from her, folded it up immediately without looking at the contents, sealed it, wrote the address, and handed it back to her in silence. I never saw anything more gracefully and more becomingly done in my life.
“You insist on my posting this letter, Sir Percival?” said Miss Halcombe.
“I beg you will post it,” he answered. “And now that it is written
knew that—and yet even the mention of his age, when I contrasted it with hers, added to my blind hatred and distrust of him.
“Accurately,” Miss Halcombe continued, “even to the scar on his right hand, which is the scar of a wound that he received years since when he was travelling in Italy. There