SIGNOR Bernardo Cignolesi took his watch from his pocket and looked at Signor Manfredi Guido.  
“It is, I think, the exact hour,” he said.
 
They were small and dapper Italians, these two, who had been appointed by the late Duca di Corleone as the executors of his will and the keepers of the letter.
 
The whole party was assembled in Miss Mason’s studio. The wedding was over. Paul and Sara had plighted their troth. The blessing upon them had been pronounced. And when the last words of it had died away the church had been suddenly filled with music, the notes of a violin joyous and sweet, a wedding song for the two, a song that had never before been played.
 
It was Michael’s tribute to them both. The organist alone had been taken into the secret, and the man, who was a very true musician, listened to the song with his eyes full of tears.
 
“It is Michael,” Sara had whispered. And no one had moved till the music had ceased.
 
But now they were all in the studio, eating wedding cake and drinking champagne, which Pippa had never tasted before and which made her gasp. She was wearing a little pendant Paul had given her. It was gold and shaped like a tulip, and it held in its chalice a blue sapphire.
 
And it was exactly an hour from the time the blessing had been pronounced that Signor Bernardo Cignolesi said to Signor Manfredi Guido:
 
“I think it is the exact hour.”
 
And Signor Manfredi Guido took a sealed envelope from his pocket, and holding it in his hand the two crossed together to Sara, who was standing by Paul, her radiance and magnetism filling the whole place.
 
“Allow us,” said Signor Guido, speaking for himself and his co-executor, “to give into your possession the letter addressed to you by the late Duca di Corleone. And now permit me to kiss your hand and wish you all happiness, thanking you at the same time for your hospitality.” He raised her hand to his lips, and Signor Cignolesi followed his example. Then bowing and smiling the two dapper little men returned to their glasses of champagne.
 
Sara broke the seal of the envelope and drew out the paper it contained. It was a letter in the late Duca’s handwriting, and addressed to herself.
 
She crossed slowly to Miss Mason’s large oak chair and sat down while she read it.
 
“My dear,” the letter began, “if ever you read this letter it will be on the day that you have given yourself into the keeping of the man you love. Therefore, will you permit me, from the regions of the peaceful dead, to offer to you my felicitations?
 
“It is possible that since my death there have been moments when you have thought of me, if not with anger, at least with vexation. I knew I ran the risk of incurring this sentiment on your part when I drew up my will.
 
“May I now give you my reasons and my excuse for my action? I will be as brief as possible:
 
“When you married me, my dear, you were able to bring me a certain quiet affection, a very true courtliness, and an entire faithfulness. Love had not entered your life. You did not, then, know its meaning. I was not the man to teach you. I knew it, and yet I was selfish enough to take you. My excuse is simply that I ............