I would not for worlds thrust myself on your confidence!" "It is no secret of mine," I answer, coldly, "everybody will know it immediately, I suppose: it is that Barbara--" I stop, as usual choked as I approach the abhorred theme.

"Will you read the letter, please?
that will be better!--yes--I had rather that you did--it will not take you long; yes, _all_ of it!" (seeing that he is holding the note in his hand and conscientiously looking away from it as if expecting limitation as to the amount he is to peruse).
He complies.

There is silence--an expectant silence on my part.

It is not of long duration.

Before ten seconds have elapsed the note has fallen from his hand; and, with an exclamation of the profoundest astonishment, he is looking with an expression of the most keenly questioning wonder at me.
"To MUSGRAVE!" I nod.