"Yes," said I, incautiously, "they are the initials of Gertrude Douglas."

"What!" cried Glanville, in a loud tone, which he instantly checked, and
continued in an indrawn, muttered whisper: "How long is it since I heard
that name! and now--now--" he broke off abruptly, and then said, with a
calmer voice, "I know not how you have learnt her name; perhaps you will
explain?"

"From Thornton," said I.

"And has he told you more?" cried Glanville, as if gasping for breath--
the "history--the dreadful--"

"Not a word," said I, hastily; "he was with me when I found the picture,
and he explained the initials."

"It is well!" answered Glanville, recovering himself; "you will see
presently if I have reason to love that those foul and sordid lips should
profane the story I am about to relate. Gertrude was an only daughter;
though of gentle blood, she was no match for me, either in rank or
fortune. Did I say just now that the world had not altered me? See my
folly; one year before I saw her, and I should not have thought her, but
myself honoured by a marriage;--twelve little months had sufficed to--God
forgive me! I took advantage of her love--her youth--her innocence--she
fled with me--but not to the altar!"

Again Glanville paused, and again, by a violent effort, conquered his
emotion, and proceeded: