I walked from Hampstead to Gower Street. As I trod its long length, I saw a figure in pink come out of one of the houses. It was Elvire. She walked in front of me to the corner of Store Street. There she met Oscar Helmont. They turned and met me face to face, and I saw all I needed to see. They loved each other. Ida Helmont had spoken the truth. I bowed and passed on. Before six months were gone they were married, and before a year was over I had married Ida Helmont. What did it I don't know. Whether it was remorse for having, even for half a day, dreamed that she could be so base as to forge a lie to gain a lover, or whether it was her beauty, or the sweet flattery of the preference of a woman who had half her acquaintances at her feet, I don't know; anyhow, my thoughts turned to her as to their natural home. My heart, too, took that road, and before very long I loved her as I had never loved Elvire. Let no one doubt that I loved her--as I shall never love again, please God! There never was any one like her. She was brave and beautiful, witty and wise, and beyond all measure adorable. She was the only woman in the world. There was a frankness--a largeness of heart--about her that made all other women seem small and contemptible. She loved me and I worshipped her. I married her, I stayed with her for three golden weeks, and then I left her. Why? Because she told me the truth. It was one night--late--we had sat all the evening in the verandah of our seaside lodging watching the moonlight on the water and listening to the soft sound of the sea on the sand. I have never been so happy; I never shall be happy any more, I hope. "Heart's heart," she said, leaning her gold head against my shoulder, "how much do you love me?" "How much?" "Yes--how much? I want to know what place it is I hold in your heart. Am I more to you than any one else?" "My love!" "More than yourself?" "More than my life!" "I believe you," she said. Then she drew a long breath, and took my hands in hers. "It can make no difference. Nothing in heaven or earth can come between us now." "Nothing," I said. "But, sweet, my wife, what is it?" For she was deathly pale. "I must tell you," she said; "I cannot hide anything now from you, because I am yours--body, soul, and spirit." The phrase was an echo that stung me. The moonlight shone on her gold hair, her warm, soft, gold hair, and on her pale face. "Arthur," she said, "you remember my coming to you at Hampstead with that letter?" "Yes, my sweet, and I remember how you----" "Arthur!"--she spoke fast and low--"Arthur, that letter was a forgery. She never wrote it. I----"