that her whole power of instinctive perception might have play. When
the blow had fallen, her only surprise had been to find that she was not
surprised, not astonished. It seemed as if she had known this all the
time, for the thing had been alongside of her for years, she had lived
too close to it for any surprise when it raised its head and found a
name. Her reasoning powers indeed asked with astonishment why she was
not surprised. She could not explain, the symptoms of the thing that had
haunted her had been too subtle, too elusive, too minute to be brought
forward now as witnesses. But while the lawyer looked at the open face
and the large eyes, and the frank bearing of the figure in the
photograph, and felt that outer man to have been the disguise of a
villain, Rose, the victim, knew better. It was a supreme proof of the
clear vision of her soul that she was not surprised, and that, even
while she seemed to be flayed morally and exposed to things evil and of
shame, she did not judge with blind indignation. He had not been wholly
bad, he had not been callous in his cruelty; what he had been there
would be time to understand--time for the delicacies, almost for the
luxuries of forgiveness. What she was feeling after now was a point of
view above passion and pain from which to judge this final opinion of
the lawyer's, from which to know whether Sir David had left another
will.

"There has been another will," she said very gently, "but, of course, it
is more than likely that it will never be found. I am convinced"--she
looked at the black and green turf all the time, and obviously spoke to
herself, not to Mr. Murray--"that he did not intend to leave me to open
shame"--the words were gently but very distinctly pronounced--"or to
leave a scandal round his own memory. Perhaps he carried another will
about with him, and if so it may be sent to me. Somehow I don't think
this will happen. I think the will you have in your hand is the only one