‘With the greatest pleasure in the world,’ said Raphael Craig. ‘It was one of your own intimate gang--your private secretary, Oakley. I bought him, body and soul, for a thousand pounds.’ ‘And he sold you to me for ten thousand,’ murmured Simon Lock, half to himself. ‘I am well rid of him. And now’--he turned to Craig, and put some firmness into his voice--do, please, come to some arrangement.’ ‘Arrangement!’ exclaimed Raphael. ‘A good joke! Certainly we will come to some arrangement. But first I must tell Redgrave, who has the right to know, the history of the girl he is about to marry. I will tell him in your presence, and when I make any error of fact you can correct me. Many years ago, Richard, I was engaged to a beautiful girl, a native of Limerick. She was an orphan, and had lived with friends until she became a school-teacher, when she lived by herself. She had some aristocratic Spanish blood in her veins through her mother’s father, who had married her grand-mother in Buenos Ayres. I met her in Limerick when I was a clerk in the bank there. I fell in love with her. I asked her to be my wife, and she consented. We were to be married as soon as my salary had sufficiently increased. I then had an offer of a situation in the British and Scottish, just starting on its successful career, and I removed to London. We arranged that I should save every possible penny, and that we should get married in about two years’ time. It was from motives of economy that I allowed a whole year to pass without revisiting Limerick. I continually received letters from my fiancee, and though their tone was never excessively warm, it was always tender, and it satisfied me. As for me, I was passionately in love. I had never seen such an adorable creature as my betrothed--her name was Juana--and I have never since seen her equal. For me she was, and always will be, the world’s jewel.... Well, a change came over the scene. I noticed something in her letters--something which I could not define. Then, after an interval of silence, came a letter saying she could not marry me. I got leave of absence--not without a great deal of difficulty--and hastened over to Limerick. Juana had left Limerick. I found her at length in a remote mountain village, and I drew from her her story. It was a shocking one. A man--a stranger from London--who must have been a highly plausible person in those days, whatever he is now--had dazzled her by his professions of admiration and love. He was a rich man even then, and he made her a brilliant offer of marriage. The poor girl was carried off her feet. Unduly urged, and her mind poisoned by his lies concerning myself, her faith in me shaken by the stoppage for some weeks of my letters, she consented to marry this man. She married him. They lived together for a brief period. And all this time she had not courage to write and confess to me the truth. Then the man left her, and coolly