The letter was fastened with a black seal, and the handwriting in
which it was addressed had lain under his eyes, long and
prominently, only the evening before.
Knight was greatly agitated, and looked about for a spot where he
might be secure from interruption. It was the season of heavy
dews, which lay on the herbage in shady places all the day long;
nevertheless, he entered a small patch of neglected grass-plat
enclosed by the shrubbery, and there perused the letter, which he
had opened on his way thither.
The handwriting, the seal, the paper, the introductory words, all
had told on the instant that the letter had come to him from the
hands of the widow Jethway, now dead and cold. He had instantly
understood that the unfinished notes which caught his eye
yesternight were intended for nobody but himself. He had
remembered some of the words of Elfride in her sleep on the
steamer, that somebody was not to tell him of something, or it
would be her ruin--a circumstance hitherto deemed so trivial and
meaningless that he had well-nigh forgotten it. All these things
infused into him an emotion intense in power and supremely
distressing in quality. The paper in his hand quivered as he
read:
'THE VALLEY, ENDELSTOW.
'SIR,--A woman who has not much in the world to lose by any
censure this act may bring upon her, wishes to give you some hints
concerning a lady you love.
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