“You! _you_ talk to me like this?” cried she passionately. “_You_ would defend him! _You!_ who knew he was once untrue? You”--faintly--“who once loved me?” “I shall be your friend always,” said he, putting a great constraint upon himself. “It is because I _am_ your friend that I speak thus; why not look at it in another light? You say your husband left you hurriedly; you say that Mme. de Vigny must have known of his absence from you, and also of your boy’s. It might be that she, out of revenge, stole the boy, and that your husband is now pursuing her with a view of restoring him to you.” He said this more to gain time than anything else, little thinking that he had guessed the truth, and had laid before her the exact facts of the case. “A fairy tale,” said she mournfully. “No! He lied to me the last time I saw him. When I asked him to bring me my child, he said he was tired--asleep. I, too, was tired, worn-out from sickness and a broken heart, and too weak to do aught but believe him. The child was not here at all!” She stepped back from Jacynth, and covered her face with her hands. “Oh, my Ronny! My beloved! Oh, my little child!” She took down her hands. Her lips were trembling. “Mr. Jacynth, what shall I do?” said she. “The first thing to do,” said he harshly, “is to keep up your courage.” He spoke in a queer, grating tone. He knew if he once gave way, he should betray himself. Betray the wild, mad longing he felt to take her in his arms, and press her poor, sweet, pretty head down upon his breast, and try with all his soul to comfort her. “You are condemning your husband unheard. Is that fair? Is it just?” “He has not been just to me!” “True! And, therefore, you find it difficult in such a crisis as this to believe in him.” He looked at her suddenly. “Still you love him?” said he. The words were a question. “Do I?” said she. _Her_ words were also a question addressed to her own heart. “I feel so tired, so tired,” she said. “It has been a struggle always, and through many things I loved him, I----” She hesitated. “I despise myself,” she said, “but I think I love him still!” A pang shot through Jacynth’s heart. He did not note the suggestion of doubt in her voice. “I love him, I think,” she went on slowly, “_I think_, but this I _know_, I distrust him.” “Distrust means ruin,” said Jacynth. “To what? To love?” “To all things.” “To friendship?” “Yes. To all things.” She went close to him. “That is not true,” she said. “You are befriending me now, yet you distrust me.” “I? No! You are thinking of that wretched trial!” He spoke with extreme agitation. “But I have heard all.” “_All?_” “Yes! _All._ And if ever a man craved another’s pardon upon his knees, I crave yours.” “All?” repeated she faintly. She seemed to have heard that one word only. “Yes,” said he. He let his voice sink to a whisper, he leaned toward her. “Who killed De Mürger?” asked he. * * * * *