John Armstrong looked at the colorless, convulsed face of hapless Nina’s husband. Somehow he was prepossessed in favor of the man, in spite of the harsh opinion he had held before meeting him. “Why did you attack him?” he said. “He intimated that my unfortunate and innocent young wife was guilty of the crime with which she is charged,” Talbot Strangemore answered, angrily. “And you do not believe that she is guilty?” asked Mr. Armstrong, watching his face, narrowly. “Great heavens, no. Could one believe an angel guilty of murder? No sooner could I believe that my fair, wronged Nina committed that terrible deed!” “Perhaps you have some idea whom the real culprit may be?” said Harvey Wilson, curiously. “Yes, I have an idea, and I have been on the track of the man I suspect of the murder for many weeks now, but I have failed as yet to fasten his guilt upon him,” Talbot Strangemore answered, with deep despondency. The listeners started and looked at each other significantly. The coming of John Armstrong had let in a flood of light upon the mysterious shadow that seemed to hang over the lives of these two men. They began dimly to scent a tragedy. “You say that you are on the track of the real murderer now. Is he then in Egypt?” inquired Mr. Armstrong, gravely. “Yes, he is in Egypt; but gentlemen, let me tell you a little story that will throw light upon this subject which seems to possess a great interest for you all.” All agreed that they were deeply interested, and anxious to hear the story he had to tell. They forgot that it was long past midnight and that they had had no sleep that night. They gathered around Talbot Strangemore and waited anxiously for what he was going to say, while Ferris glared at them with the fury of a baffled tiger. “I am not going to talk about myself,” said Talbot Strangemore. “My guilt and sin toward my fair and faithful young bride admits of no excuse or palliation. It is of that other one I would speak. The woman whose beauty cursed and ruined my life!” “And mine!” Oswald Ferris ejaculated, under his breath. “Two years ago, when I first met Mrs. St. Alban after her widowhood she had another lover,” went on Talbot. “He was fine-looking, brilliant in conversation, with many intellectual attainments, and a favorite with men. I will do him the credit to say that if he had never come under the fatal sway of that arch coquette he might have been a good man--at least he might not have gone very far wrong.” He looked straight at Ferris and did not flinch at the angry threatening glare of his eyes. “But Sibyl St. Alban taught to this strong, fiery brilliant spirit all the madness of love,” he went on. “She made him the slave of her imperious will and idle caprices, and with her soft words and tender smiles she made him believe that she loved him in return and promised him her hand in marriage. It was while he was reveling in his Fool’s Paradise that I came upon the scene.”