At the moment he was to me like a blistering plaster, making me think of nothing but the irritation and pain. It is little consolation to be told, under any circumstances, that one has played the part of a fool. I went to dinner at the club moodily, and on returning to my apartments set myself to consuming as many cigars as possible in a given time. They were cigars I had bought from a Kingston manufacturer and were decidedly better than many sold under the name of "Havanas," since the troubles began in Cuba. I must have smoked at least twenty of them before I paused, put on my hat and light overcoat, and went out of doors, to see if the open air would have any effect in clearing the mist that hung over my brain. I walked aimlessly for some time, in various directions, and found myself standing opposite my own windows an hour after I began. I wondered if I would be able to sleep if I went into the house. Unconsciousness was the thing most to be desired, it seemed to me. As I had about come to the conclusion to try it, a low voice called my name and its tones filled me with a thrill that was indescribable. "Mr. Camran!" "Yes," I replied, laconically. "I know," said the voice, and I saw the outlines of the figure I remembered so well, "I know--that I have no right--to appeal to your pity--or to ask your aid. I have, unfortunately--no other resource--and--I beg you--as you hope for mercy at the bar of Heaven--give me--a few minutes--where I can speak to you--in private." That form was bent, the tears in that voice were real; she was not acting now. "Will you come up to my rooms?" I asked. "I should be so thankful!" "Come, then." We went in together, astonishing the hallboy somewhat, for to do myself justice, he had never seen me enter at that time of the evening so accompanied. When we were in my sitting room, and the door shut--I did not turn the key, remembering her aversion to locked doors--she began to speak, slowly and tremblingly: "I am overcome with shame--I am plunged in a despair that only you can lighten. I know well--that I deserve nothing--at your hands. I--I have robbed you, insulted you--done everything to earn your hatred and contempt; and yet--" "And yet," I interrupted, for her attitude touched me deeply, "and yet--you have not succeeded in earning either." She sprang up with the evident intention of threwing herself at my feet, but I caught her by the hands--those hands whose touch had given me such delight only a week ago! How cold they were! "Let us come to the point," I said, when she was again seated. "Your husband is in jail; you found it out after you sent me that confession; and you want me to free him." She rocked herself backward and forward.