He was to some extent enlightened now, but he was even more astonished, more disconcerted: he took a moment to compare my story with his quickened memories. The result of his meditation was his presently saying with a good deal of rather feeble form: “This is the first I hear of what you allude to. I think you must be mistaken as to Mrs. Drayton Deane’s having had any unmentioned, and still less any unmentionable, knowledge of Hugh Vereker. She’d certainly have wished it—should it have borne on his literary character—to be used.” “It was used. She used it herself. She told me with her own lips that she ‘lived’ on it.” I had no sooner spoken than I repented of my words; he grew so pale that I felt as if I had struck him. “Ah, ‘lived’—!” he murmured, turning short away from me. My compunction was real; I laid my hand on his shoulder. “I beg you to forgive me—I’ve made a mistake. You don’t know what I thought you knew. You could, if I had been right, have rendered me a service; and I had my reasons for assuming that you’d be in a position to meet me.” “Your reasons?” he asked. “What were your reasons?” I looked at him well; I hesitated; I considered. “Come and sit down with me here, and I’ll tell you.” I drew him to a sofa, I lighted another cigar and, beginning with the anecdote of Vereker’s one descent from the clouds, I recited to him the extraordinary chain of accidents that had, in spite of the original gleam, kept me till that hour in the dark. I told him in a word just what I’ve written out here. He listened with deepening attention, and I became aware, to my surprise, by his ejaculations, by his questions, that he would have been after all not unworthy to be trusted by his wife. So abrupt an experience of her want of trust had now a disturbing effect on him; but I saw the immediate shock throb away little by little and then gather again into waves of wonder and curiosity—waves that promised, I could perfectly judge, to break in the end with the fury of my own highest tides. I may say that to-day as victims of unappeased desire there isn’t a pin to choose between us. The poor man’s state is almost my consolation; there are really moments when I feel it to be quite my revenge. * * * * * PRINTED BY KNIGHT’S WEST NORWOOD