So Herold, amid the fripperies of Miss Lindon's drawing-room, told the story of his summons to the Channel House some time ago--Good God!--He caught himself up sharply--it was only yesterday! and of his talk with Stellamaris in the garden, and of her encounter with the evil woman, and of the poison that had crept to the roots of Stella's being. John shivered, and clenched impotent fists. Stella left alone on the cliff-edge with that murderous hag! Stella's ears polluted by that infamous tale! If only he had known it! Why did she hide it from him? It was well the murderess was dead, but, merciful Heaven, at what a price! “Listen,” said Herold, gravely, checking his outburst; and he told of his meetings with Unity,--it was essential that John should know,--of her almost mystical worship of Stellamaris, of their discovery of the revolver-- “Poor child!” cried John, “I bought it soon after I went to Kilburn. I took it out the other day and played with a temptation I knew I should n't succumb to. I should never have had the pluck.” Herold continued, telling him all he knew--all save that of which he stood self-accused, and which for the present was a matter between him and his Maker. And Miss Lindon, fondling on her lap a wheezy pug, the successor to the Dandy of former days who had been gathered to his fathers long ago, listened in placid bewilderment to the strange story of love and crime. “I 'm sure I don't understand how people think of such things, let alone do them,” she sighed. “You must accept the fact, dear Miss Lindon,” said Herold, gently. “God's will be done,” she murmured, which in the circumstances was as relevant a thing as the poor lady could have uttered. But John sat hunched up in a bamboo chair that creaked under his weight, and scarcely spoke a word. He felt very unimportant by the side of Unity--Unity with whose strong, passionate soul he had dwelt in blind ignorance. And Unity was dead, lying stark and white in the alien house. After a long silence he roused himself. “You wrote to Stella, you said?” “Yes,” replied Herold. “What will happen to her?” “I don't know.” John groaned. “If only I had protected her as I ought to have done! If only I had protected both of them!” He relapsed again into silence, burying his face in his hands. Presently Miss Lindon put the pug tenderly on the ground, rose, and stood by his chair. “My poor boy,” she said, “do you love her so much?” “She's dead,” said John. Herold shook him by the shoulder. “Nonsense, man. Pull yourself together.” John raised a drawn face. “What did you ask? I was thinking about Unity.” That day, the day after the tragedy, Stellamaris faced life, in its nakedness, stripped, so it appeared to her, of every rag of mystery.