He never knew what was the fashion of his countenance. He could not have analysed his feelings to save his life. But, as he looked at her, his wife of yesterday, the woman whom he loved, she seemed to shrivel up before his eyes, and sank upon the floor. There was silence. Then she made a little gesture towards him with her two hands. She fell forward, hiding her face on the ground at his feet, prisoning his legs with her arms. "How came these things into your bag?" He did not know his own voice, it was so dry and harsh. She made no answer. "Did you steal them?" Still silence. He felt a sort of rage rising within him. "There are one or two questions you must answer. I am sorry to have to put them; it is not my fault. You had better get up from the floor." She never moved. For his life he could not have touched her. "I suppose--." He was choked, and paused. "I suppose that woman's jewels are some of these?" No answer. Recognising the hopelessness of putting questions to her now, he gathered the various articles together and put them back into the bag. "I'm afraid you will have to dine alone." That was all he said to her. With the bag in his hand he left the room, leaving her in a heap upon the floor. He sneaked rather than walked out of the hotel. Supposing they caught him red-handed, with that thing in his hand? He only began to breathe freely when he was out in the street. Possibly no man in Paris spent the night of that twentieth of June more curiously than Mr. Burgoyne. When he returned it was four o'clock in the morning, and broad day. He was worn-out, haggard, the spectre of a man. In the bedroom he found his wife just as he had left her, in a heap upon the floor, but fast asleep. She had removed none of her clothes, not even her bonnet or her gloves. She had been crying--apparently had cried herself to sleep. As he stood looking down at her he realised how he loved her--the woman, the creature of flesh and blood, apart entirely from her moral qualities. He placed the bag within his trunk and locked it up. Then, kneeling beside his wife, he stooped and kissed her as she slept. The kiss aroused her. She woke as wakes a child, and, putting her arms about his neck, she kissed him back again. Not a word was spoken. Then she got up. He helped her to undress, and put her into a bed as though she were a child. Then he undressed himself, and joined her. And they fell fast asleep locked in each other's arms. That night they returned to London. The bag went with them. On the morning after their arrival, Mr. Burgoyne took a cab into the city, the fatal bag beside him on the seat. He drove straight to Mr. Staunton's office. When he entered, unannounced, his father-in-law started as though he were a ghost. "Burgoyne! What brings you here? I hope there's nothing wrong?" Mr. Burgoyne did not reply at once. He placed the bag--Minnie's bag--upon the table. He kept his eyes fixed upon his father-in-law's countenance.