At The Villa Rose

He was pointing to a side-table on which were piled Mr. Ricardo's

letters.

"You have not opened them this morning?" he asked.

"No. You came while I was still in bed. I have not thought of them

till now."

Hanaud crossed to the table, and, looking down at the letters,

uttered a cry.

"There's one, the big envelope," he said, his voice shaking like

his hand. "It has a Swiss stamp."

He swallowed to moisten his throat. Ricardo sprang across the room

and tore open the envelope. There was a long letter enclosed in a

handwriting unknown to him. He read aloud the first lines of the

letter: "I write what I saw and post it tonight, so that no one may be

before me with the news. I will come over tomorrow for the money."

A low exclamation from Hanaud interrupted the words.

"The signature! Quick!"

Ricardo turned to the end of the letter.

"Marthe Gobin."

"She speaks, then! After all she speaks!" Hanaud whispered in a

voice of awe. He ran to the door of the room, opened it suddenly,

and, shutting it again, locked it. "Quick! We cannot bring that

poor woman back to life; but we may still--" He did not finish his

sentence. He took the letter unceremoniously from Ricardo's hand

and seated himself at the table. Over his shoulder Mr. Ricardo,

too, read Marthe Gobin's letter.

It was just the sort of letter, which in Ricardo's view, Marthe

Gobin would have written--a long, straggling letter which never

kept to the point, which exasperated them one moment by its folly

and fired them to excitement the next.

It was dated from a small suburb of Geneva, on the western side of

the lake, and it ran as follows: "The suburb is but a street close to the lake-side, and a tram

runs into the city. It is quite respectable, you understand,

monsieur, with a hotel at the end of it, and really some very good

houses. But I do not wish to deceive you about the social position

of myself or my husband. Our house is on the wrong side of the

street--definitely--yes. It is a small house, and we do not see

the water from any of the windows because of the better houses

opposite. M. Gobin, my husband, who was a clerk in one of the

great banks in Geneva, broke down in health in the spring, and for

the last three months has been compelled to keep indoors. Of

course, money has not been plentiful, and I could not afford a

nurse. Consequently I myself have been compelled to nurse him.

Monsieur, if you were a woman, you would know what men are when

they are ill--how fretful, how difficult. There is not much

distraction for the woman who nurses them. So, as I am in the

house most of the day, I find what amusement I can in watching the

doings of my neighbours. You will not blame me.