He paused for a moment; he let his head droop on his breast, then suddenly raised it again. “Surely we were talking about her last night?” he said. “What did I say? what did you say? My memory is confused; I half remember, half forget. Please remind me. You’re not offended with me--are you?” I might have been offended with another man. Not with him. I was far too anxious to find my way into his confidence--now that he had touched of his own accord on the subject of Eustace’s first wife--to be offended with Miserrimus Dexter. “We were speaking,” I answered, “of Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s death, and we were saying to one another--” He interrupted me, leaning forward eagerly in his chair. “Yes! yes!” he exclaimed. “And I was wondering what interest _you_ could have in penetrating the mystery of her death. Tell me! Confide in me! I am dying to know!” “Not even you have a stronger interest in that subject than the interest that I feel,” I said. “The happiness of my whole life to come depends on my clearing up the mystery.” “Good God--why?” he cried. “Stop! I am exciting myself. I mustn’t do that. I must have all my wits about me; I mustn’t wander. The thing is too serious. Wait a minute!” An elegant little basket was hooked on to one of the arms of his chair. He opened it, and drew out a strip of embroidery partially finished, with the necessary materials for working, a complete. We looked at each other across the embroidery. He noticed my surprise. “Women,” he said, “wisely compose their minds, and help themselves to think quietly, by doing needle-work. Why are men such fools as to deny themselves the same admirable resource--the simple and soothing occupation which keeps the nerves steady and leaves the mind calm and free? As a man, I follow the woman’s wise example. Mrs. Valeria, permit me to compose myself.” Gravely arranging his embroidery, this extraordinary being began to work with the patient and nimble dexterity of an accomplished needle-woman. “Now,” said Miserrimus Dexter, “if you are ready, I am. You talk--I work. Please begin.” I obeyed him, and began. CHAPTER XXVIII. IN THE DARK. WITH such a man as Miserrimus Dexter, and with such a purpose as I had in view, no half-confidences were possible. I must either risk the most unreserved acknowledgment of the interests that I really had at stake, or I must make the best excuse that occurred to me for abandoning my contemplated experiment at the last moment. In my present critical situation, no such refuge as a middle course lay before me--even if I had been inclined to take it. As things were, I ran risks, and plunged headlong into my own affairs at starting. “Thus far, you know little or nothing about me, Mr. Dexter,” I said. “You are, as I believe, quite unaware that my husband and I are not living together at the present time.” “Is it necessary to mention your husband?” he asked, coldly, without looking up from his embroidery, and without pausing in his work.