“Let me tell you my tale now, Monica. I left Scotland early this morning, finishing business twelve hours earlier than I expected. I wired from Durham to you; but you had left the house before my telegram reached. In the train, during the last hour of the journey, some young fellows got in, who were amusing themselves by idle repetition of current gossip. I heard my wife’s name mentioned more than once, coupled with that of Sir Conrad Fitzgerald, in whose company she had evidently been frequently seen of late. I reached home—Lady Monica was out for the day with Mrs. Bellamy—presumably with Sir Conrad also. I dined at my club, to hear from more than one source that the world was gossiping about my handsome wife and Sir Conrad Fitzgerald. I came home at dusk to find the groom just returned, with the news that Sir Conrad was bringing my lady home, that he was dismissed from attendance; and in effect the man whose acquaintance I repudiate, whose presence in my house is an insult, rides up to my door in attendance upon my wife. Before I say any more, tell me your story. Monica, let me hear what you have been doing whilst I have been away.” Monica, roused to a passionate indignation by what she heard—an indignation that for the moment seemed to include the husband, who had uttered such cruel, wounding words, told her story with graphic energy. She was grateful to Randolph for listening so calmly and so patiently. She was vaguely aware that not all men would show such forbearance and self-control. She knew she had wounded him to the quick by her indiscretion and self-will, but he gave her every chance to exculpate herself. When she had told her story, she stood up very straight before him. Let him pronounce sentence upon her; she would bear it patiently if she could. “I see, Monica,” he answered, very quietly, “I understand. It is not all your fault. You have only been unguarded. You have been an innocent victim. It is Fitzgerald’s own false tongue that has set on foot these idle, baseless rumours. It is just like him.” Monica recoiled again. “Just like him! but, Randolph, he is my friend!” A stern look settled upon Randolph’s face. “Oblige me, Monica, by withdrawing that word. He is _not_ your friend; and he is my enemy.” “Your enemy?” “Yes; and _this_ is how he tries to obtain his revenge.” Monica was trembling in every limb. “I do not understand,” she said. “Sit down, then, and I will tell you.” She obeyed, but he did not sit down. He stood with his back against the chimney-piece, the light from the chandelier falling full upon his stern resolute face, with its handsome features and luminous dark eyes. “You say you know the story of Fitzgerald’s past?” “Yes; he forged a cheque. His sister told me.” Randolph looked at her intently. “Was that _all_ she told you?” “Yes; she said it was all. He deceived a friend and benefactor, and committed a crime. Was not that enough?”