John Schuyler swung on his heel. And then he laughed; it was a laugh that, God grant, you may never laugh, nor I! [Illustration] CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX. THE RED ROSE. He did not see her enter. He did not hear her enter. Yet he knew that she was there, although he had left her across an ocean.... Another sense, it seemed, there was within him.... He knew that she had crossed the room; that she was leaning, rounded arms all bare, across the back of the great chair, by the window. He did not know; he had not looked; yet he could see her, beautiful, gloriously beautiful in her strange, weird, dark beauty; head poised like a tiger lily upon its stalk; great masses of dead black hair coiled in the disorder that, of her, was order above the low, white forehead; vivid lips parted to reveal the gleam of shining teeth; long, lithe limbs in the easy relaxation that is of the panther, or the leopard. At length he turned.... She was there. She was as he, unseeing, had seen; as he had known that he should see.... He had ceased to wonder. The Unknown had taught him so much that of the things it had not taught, he had ceased to wonder.... He looked; and looked away. She laughed, a little, lightly. She turned a little, lissomely. He could see the muscles of her straight, slender shape ripple beneath the shimmering black gown. At length he spoke, roughly, gruffly: "Well?" Almost caressingly, she answered: "Well?" "So you've come to gaze upon the ruin you have wrought, eh?" Again she laughed. "Upon the ruin _we_ have wrought, My Fool," she corrected. "Don't call me that," he muttered. "It hurts. It hurts because it's true." "Most truths hurt," she remarked, smilingly. "Now," he mumbled, "yes...." And then: "You're satisfied, I hope. She's gone." "Gone?" It was a pretty inflection--the rising inflection of great surprise. Her eyes, glowing of merriment, belied her lips. "Gone," he repeated, doggedly. "Gone, and taken the child--my child--our child--with her." She glided across to where he sat; she leaned over him. "And you're sorry, I suppose," she asked, mockingly. "Heart-broken!" "Yes, by God! I am!" he cried, from the soul. There came from her lips a peal of merry, musical laughter. "The man of it! Every man wants two women--one to love, and one to respect; one to caress, the other to honor; one to please himself, the other to please his friends. And you're no different from the rest that I have known." He looked up at her, eye laden of hate, and scorn. "The rest that you have known!" he retorted, with bitterness, with meaning. "The rest that I have known," she returned, evenly, lightly. "Young Parmalee, and Rogers, and Seward Van Dam--and God knows how many more!" She laughed. "Jealous, eh? That is as it should be, My Fool." She laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. Roughly he took it, casting it from him. "Damn you!" he cried. "Let me alone!" She drew up, stiffly, but speaking softly, said, "So?"