Monica did sincerely wish to hear about Arthur, but she had something else to report to Tom as well. She had the greatest confidence in his acuteness and penetration, and could sometimes say to him what she would have despaired of communicating intelligibly to any one else. There was no difficulty in securing a private interview when once he had come back. Every one knew how anxious Monica would be to hear every detail of Arthur’s present life, and Tom resigned himself, and told his tale with all possible fulness and accuracy. Monica listened with an absorbed look upon her face. When he had told all, she said simply: “Thank you, Tom, for all your goodness to him. I am very sorry I ever misunderstood you, and said such hard things of and to you. You have got the best of it in the end, by heaping coals of fire upon me.” He smiled slightly. “My dear Monica, you don’t suppose I troubled my head over your ladyship’s righteous wrath. I found it very amusing, I assure you.” “I believe you did,” assented Monica, smiling in turn; “which made things a little trying for me. Tom, I believe you have always been my friend, even when we have seemed most bitterly opposed.” The sudden earnestness of her manner made him look at her keenly, and he spoke without his usual half-mocking intonation. “I hope so, Monica. I wish to have the right to call myself your friend.” He looked steadily at her, knowing there was more to follow. She was silent for a time, and then came a sudden and most unexpected question, and one apparently most irrelevant. “Do you know Sir Conrad Fitzgerald?” “I used to know him when he was a child. I knew him slightly at Oxford. He has made no attempt to renew the acquaintance since he has been down here; and, judging by what I have heard, I should not be inclined to encourage him if he did.” “But there would be nothing extraordinary in your visiting him?” “Possibly not; but I cannot say I have any wish to try the experiment.” “You know his history, perhaps?—the dark stain.” “I heard of it at the time it happened—not from Trevlyn, though. It’s a sort of story that doesn’t make one yearn to renew acquaintance with the hero.” For a few moments Monica sat very still and silent. Then she asked quietly: “Do you think he is the kind of man to be dangerous?” “Dangerous?” “Yes—if he had taken a vow of vengeance. Do you think——?” “Well, what?” “Think he would try very hard to accomplish such a vow? Do people never in these days try to do an injury to a man they hate?” Tom began to understand her now.