"How odd it all is!" said Mrs. Malcolm. But she was wondering why men are so queer with their wives--resent so much the slightest social clumsiness on their part, while in other women--provided the offense is not too great--it merely amuses them. Even the guarded manners of Sir John had been disturbed. For a moment he had been very angry with the shadow that bore his name; one could tell by the swift glance he had cast in her direction. After all, upsetting a glass of champagne was a very natural sequel to a story such as Burnaby had told, a story about a former acquaintance--perhaps friend. Sir John thoughtfully helped himself to a spoonful of his dessert before he looked up; when he did so he laid down his spoon and sat back in his chair with the manner of a man who has made a sudden decision. "No," he said, and an unexpected little smile hovered about his lips, "it isn't so odd. Bewsher was rather a figure of a man twenty years ago. Shall I tell you his history?" To Mrs. Malcolm, watching with alert, humorous eyes, there came a curious impression, faint but distinct, like wind touching her hair; as if, that is, a door into the room had opened and shut. She leaned forward, supporting her chin in her hand. "Of course," she said. Sir John twisted between his fingers the stem of his champagne-glass and studied thoughtfully the motes of at the heart of the amber wine. "You see," he began thoughtfully, "it's such a difficult story to tell--difficult because it took twenty-five--and, now that Mr. Burnaby has furnished the sequel, forty-five years--to live; and difficult because it is largely a matter of psychology. I can only give you the high lights, as it were. You must fill in the rest for yourselves. You must imagine, that is, Bewsher and this other fellow--this Morton. I can't give you his real name--it is too important; you would know it. No, it isn't obviously dramatic. And yet--" his voice suddenly became vibrant--"such things compose, as a matter of fact, the real drama of the world. It--" he looked about the table swiftly and leaned forward, and then, as if interrupting himself, "but what _was_ obviously dramatic," he said--and the little dancing sparks in the depths of his eyes were peculiarly noticeable--"was the way I, of all people, heard it. Yes. You see, I heard it at a dinner party like this, in London; and Morton--the man himself--told the story." He paused, and with half-closed eyes studied the effect of his announcement. "You mean--?" asked Burnaby. "Exactly." Sir John spoke with a certain cool eagerness. "He sat up before all those people and told the inner secrets of his life; and of them all I was the only one who suspected the truth. Of course, he was comparatively safe, none of them knew him well except myself, but think of it! The bravado--the audacity! Rather magnificent, wasn't it?" He sank back once more in his chair. Mrs. Malcolm agreed. "Yes," she said. "Magnificent and insulting."