The letter was laboriously written by a man of imperfect education, and barely covered three loosely written sides of ordinary note-paper.

It arrived when Fenwick's own researches were already at a standstill, and seemed to leave nothing more to hope for.

The police inquiries which had been initiated went on intermittently for a while, then ceased; the waters of life closed over Phoebe Fenwick and her child.
What was Fenwick's present feeling towards his wife?
If amid this crowded Paris he had at last beheld her coming to him, had seen the tall figure and the childish look, and the lovely, pleading eyes, would his heart have leapt within him ?--would his hands have been outstretched to enfold and pardon her ?--or would he have looked at her sombrely, unable to pass the gulf between them--to forget what she had done?
In truth, he could not have answered the question; he was uncertain of himself.

Her act, by its independence, its force of will, and the ability she had shown in planning and carrying it out, had transformed his whole conception of her.

In a sense, he knew her no longer.