"From Clara Talboys," he murmured slowly, as he looked critically at the clearly-shaped letters of his name and address. "Yes, from Clara Talboys, most decidedly; I recognized a feminine resemblance to poor George's hand; neater than his, and more decided than his, but very like, very like."
He turned the letter over and examined the seal, which bore his friend's familiar crest.
"I wonder what she says to me?" he thought. "It's a long letter, I dare say; she's the kind of woman who would write a long letter--a letter that will urge me on, drive me forward, wrench me out of myself, I've no doubt. But that can't be helped--so here goes!"
He tore open the envelope with a sigh of resignation. It contained nothing but George's two letters, and a few words written on the flap: "I send the letters; please preserve and return them--C.T."
The letter, written from Liverpool, told nothing of the writer's life except his sudden determination of starting for a new world, to redeem the fortunes that had been ruined in the old. The letter written almost immediately after George's marriage, contained a full description of his wife--such a description as a man could only write within three weeks of a love match--a description in which every feature was minutely catalogued, every grace of form or beauty of expression fondly dwelt upon, every charm of manner lovingly depicted.
Robert Audley read the letter three times before he laid it down.
"If George could have known for what a purpose this description would serve when he wrote it," thought the young barrister, "surely his hand would have fallen paralyzed by horror, and powerless to shape one syllable of these tender words."