Sir John drew a deep breath, and reached out his hand.

The letter had come at last.

At last, thank God! And how weakly ready he was to grasp at the olive branch held out to him across a continent! He took the letter; he made a step with it towards the door, seeking solitude; then, as an afterthought, he looked at the superscription.
It was addressed to the same person, Miss Chyne, but in a different handwriting--the handwriting of a man well educated but little used to wielding the pen.
"The other," mumbled Sir John.

"The other man, by God!" And, with a smile that sat singularly on his withered face, he took up a newspaper and went towards the fireplace, where he sat stiffly in an armchair, taking an enormous interest in the morning's news.

He read a single piece of news three times over, and a fourth time in a whisper, so as to rivet his attention upon it.