"One thing about Paul puzzled me from the very first evening we met," she said reflectively as she was describing those halcyon days of forbidden love. "It was that I noticed, high upon his left wrist, about four inches from the base of the hand, a scarlet mark, encircling the whole arm. It looked as though he had worn a bracelet that had chafed him, or perhaps it had been tattooed there. Several times I referred to it, but he always evaded my question, and seemed to grow uneasy because I noticed it. Indeed, after a few meetings I noticed that he wore shirts with the cuffs buttoned over with solitaires, instead of open links. Well--" she went on slowly with a strange, far-away look in her face. "I--I hardly like to tell you further." "Go on, little friend," he urged, "your secret is in safe keeping with me--whatever it may be. You loved the man, eh?" "Ah! yes!" she cried. "You are right. I--I loved him--and I did not know. We met again in Paris--many times. All sorts of ruses I resorted to, in order to get out, if only for half an hour. He followed me to London--when I left school--and he came up here." "Up here!" he gasped. "He loved you, then?" "Yes. And when I went to Dresden he went there also." "Why?" She held her breath. Her eyes looked straight into his, and then were downcast. "Because--because," she faltered hoarsely, "because he is my husband!" "Your husband. Great heavens!" "Yes. I married him six months ago at the registry office in the Blackfriars Road, in London," she said in a strangely blank voice. "I am Madame Berton." He stood utterly dumbfounded. The sweet, refined face of the child-wife was ashen pale, her white lips were trembling, and tears were welling in her eyes. He could see she wished to confide further in him. "Well?" he asked. It was the only word he could utter. "We parted half an hour after our marriage, and I have only seen him six times since. He comes here surreptitiously," she said in a low voice of despair. "Why?" "Because evil fortune has pursued him. He--he confessed to me a few weeks ago that he was not so rich as he had been. He will be rich some day, but now he is horribly poor. He being my husband, it is my duty to help him--is it not?" Garrett's heart rose against this cowardly foreigner, who had inveigled her into a secret marriage, whoever he might be, for, according to French law, he might at once repudiate her. Poor child! She was evidently devoted to him. "Well," he said, "that depends upon circumstances. In what manner is he seeking your assistance?" She hesitated. At last she said: "Well--I give him a little money sometimes. But I never have enough. All the trinkets I dare spare are gone." "You love him--eh?" asked the young man seriously.