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Forgive me this. Your
life supplanted the life of one whom I loved better than women are often
loved, and the bitterness of it endureth yet. Had I lived I should in
time have conquered this foolish feeling, but I am not destined to live.
My sufferings, physical and mental, are more than I can bear, and when
such small arrangements as I have to make for your future well-being are
completed it is my intention to put a period to them. May God forgive me
if I do wrong. At the best I could not live more than another year."
"So he killed himself," I exclaimed. "I thought so."
"And now," Leo went on, without replying, "enough of myself. What has to
be said belongs to you who live, not to me, who am dead, and almost as
much forgotten as though I had never been. Holly, my friend (to whom, if
he will accept the trust, it is my intention to confide you), will have
told you something of the extraordinary antiquity of your race. In
the contents of this casket you will find sufficient to prove it.


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