"
He stopped, and in a few tense, breathless moments Mary Josephine read
the ninth and last letter he had taken from the Englishman's chest. It
was from her uncle. In a dozen lines it stated that she, Mary
Josephine, was dead, and it reiterated the threat against Derwent
Conniston should he ever dare to return to England.
A choking cry came to her lips. "And that--THAT was it?"
"Yes, that--and the hurt in my head," he said, remembering the part he
must play. "They came at about the same time, and the two of them must
have put the grain of sand in my brain."
It was hard to lie now, looking straight into her face that had gone
suddenly white, and with her wonderful eyes burning deep into his soul.
She did not seem, for an instant, to hear his voice or sense his words.
"I understand now," she was saying, the letter crumpling in her
fingers. "I was sick for almost a year, Derry. They thought I was going
to die. He must have written it then, and they destroyed my letters to
you, and when I was better they told me you were dead, and then I
didn't write any more. And I wanted to die. And then, almost a year
ago, Colonel Reppington came to me, and his dear old voice was so
excited that it trembled, and he told me that he believed you were
alive.
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