Perhaps he had thrust them into that secret recess, and there forgotten them; 'twas an explanation that sorted better with what Mr.Caryll knew of his father, than the supposition that so dull and practical and self-centered a nature could have been irradiated by a gleam of such tenderness as the hoarding of those letters might have argued.
He continued to turn them over, half-mechanically, forgetful of the urgent need to burn the treasonable documents he had secured, forgetful of everything, even Hortensia's presence.

And meantime she watched him in silence, marvelling at this delay, and still more at the gray look that had crept into his face.
"What have you found ?" she asked at last.
"A ghost," he answered, and his voice had a strained, metallic ring.

He even vented an odd laugh.

"A bundle of old love-letters." "From her ladyship ?" "Her ladyship ?" He looked up, an expression on his face which seemed to show that he could not at the moment think who her ladyship might be.
Then as the picture of that bedaubed, bedizened and harsh-featured Jezebel arose in his mind to stand beside the sweet girl--image of his mother--as he knew her from the portrait that hung at Maligny--he laughed again.

"No, not from her ladyship," said he.