“He, and nobody else,” replied I. “He decided to do me up--and I guess he'll succeed. He's not the man to lift his gun unless he's sure the bird will fall.” “Do you really not care any more than you show?” she asked. “Or is your manner only bravado--to show off before me?” “I don't care a damn, since I'm to lose you,” said I. “It'll be a godsend to have a hard row to hoe the next few months or years.” She went back to leaning against the table, her arms folded as before. I saw she was thinking out something. Finally she said: “I have decided not to accept your release.” I sprang to my feet. “Anita!” I cried, my arms stretched toward her. But she only looked coldly at me, folded her arms the more tightly and said: “Do not misunderstand me. The bargain is the same as before. If you want me on those terms, I must--give myself.” “Why?” I asked. A faint smile, with no mirth in it, drifted round the corners of her mouth. “An impulse,” she said. “I don't quite understand it myself. An impulse from--from--” Her eyes and her thoughts were far away, and her expression was the one that made it hardest for me to believe she was a child of those parents of hers. “An impulse from a sense of justice--of decency. I am the cause of your trouble, and I daren't be a coward and a cheat.” She repeated the last words. “A coward--a cheat! We--I--have taken much from you, more than you know. It must be repaid. If you still wish, I will--will keep to my bargain.” “It's true, I'd not have got into the mess,” said I, “if I'd been attending to business instead of dangling after you. But you're not responsible for that folly.” She tried to speak several times, before she finally succeeded in saying: “It's my fault. I mustn't shirk.” I studied her, but I couldn't puzzle her out. “I've been thinking all along that you were simple and transparent,” I said. “Now, I see you are a mystery. What are you hiding from me?” Her smile was almost coquettish as she replied: “When a woman makes a mystery of herself to a man, it's for the man's good.” I took her hand--almost timidly. “Anita,” I said, “do you still--dislike me?” “I do not--and shall not--love you,” she answered. “But you are--” “More endurable?” I suggested, as she hesitated. “Less unendurable,” she said with raillery. Then she added, “Less unendurable than profiting by a-creeping up in the dark.” I thought I understood her better than she understood herself. And suddenly my passion melted in a tenderness I would have said was as foreign to me as rain to a desert. I noticed that she had a haggard look. “You are very tired, child,” said I. “Good night. I am a different man from what I was when I came in here.” “And I a different woman,” said she, a beauty shining from her that was as far beyond her physical beauty as--as love is beyond passion. “A nobler, better woman,” I exclaimed, kissing her hand. She snatched it away.