"Again, John," he cried with brazen effrontery, "like a bad penny returned. I can't afford to lose sight of you. What a sly dog you are! but I am a slyer. It is an amusing game. Set a thief to catch a thief, you know." "It is you who are the thief," I said, all my fears returning, "but you have had your journey for nothing this time. You can get nothing more out of me for the best of reasons; you have robbed me of almost my last penny." "We shall see. So you thought to give me the slip. You may thank your stars you did not succeed. I have come to see you not on my account, but on Barbara's." "You might have spared yourself the trouble," I said, coldly. "I have nothing to say to her; she can have nothing to say to me." "That is where you are mistaken. Passion blinds you, John. Mind, I don't mean to say you have nothing to complain of. I see now that you were not suited to one another, and I dare say I was to blame in not opening your eyes before you married her. There were reasons. In the first place--I admit it frankly--I wanted to get rid of her. I am no saint, but she tired me out; honestly, I was sick of her. In the second place, she bound me down. 'It is my last chance,' she said. Why, she was engaged three times before you met her, and was found out in time by her lovers, who were not slow in beating a retreat. You were the unlucky one to fall into the trap, and though I've been hard on you I am sorry for you. In running away from her and taking up with another woman you did what I should have done if I had been in your place. However, it is all at an end now." "At an end!" I echoed, regarding him with amazement "At an end," he repeated, gravely. "You will soon be free, and then I suppose you will wash your hands of me. Well! Perhaps I shall have a bit of luck in another quarter. I don't mind telling you that I had a man watching you all the time you were in Swanage. I knew when you left and where you ran to. I could have been here three weeks ago if I wished, and I have only come to bring you the news. Barbara is dying." God forgive me, the exclamation that escaped me was not one of horror, but of relief; and the next moment I was shocked at myself. "She has behaved abominably," he continued, "but after all, she is your wife, and you can hardly refuse to see her, and whisper a word of forgiveness--supposing we are in time. I left her this morning; the doctor was with her, and said he doubted whether she would live over to-morrow." "It is so sudden," I said, and still my thoughts continued to dwell upon Ellen and our child. "Has she been long ill?" "She has not been ill at all in that sense," he replied. "It was an accident. Yesterday morning, when she was in her usual state--you understand, John--she slipped from the top of the stairs to the bottom, and broke her spine. The moment the doctor saw her he said there was no hope. Will you come?"