It was during these nights of nursing that the poor parched lips of the invalid muttered words which astonished the Englishman. For, little by little, word by word, she told him all. Sometimes she called on Belleisle for mercy, begging him to take her back to school; then she reproached him for having forced her into a marriage; then she cried and sobbed, vowing vehemently that she was his wife. She spoke again and again of the forged letters to the Marquis de Vaux; then she cried passionately, saying she could never face her guardian any more. ‘Delirious people never lie,’ said the young man to himself one evening, as he stood by the bed, plaintively regarding the pale, pinched face. ‘If she had not been so ill I could not have extracted so much from her by days of cross-questioning. Poor, misguided, miserable child--another instance of the martyrdom of woman to the treachery of man. God help her! God help her!’ Having told this much, Madeline told more. By interrogating her during her saner moments, he learned that her guardian was a Mr. White, who lived in a studio in St. John’s Wood. He risked sending a telegram, and somewhat to his amazement got a reply-- ‘God bless you for the information. I am starting for Paris forthwith.’ Having read the telegram, which came to his lodgings, he folded it, put it in his pocket, and walked up to the house where Madeline still lay. Good news awaited him there. The maid’s face was very bright, and the cause of that brightness was that Mademoiselle had awakened, taken some nourishment, and fallen into a natural sleep. The fever had abated, and the doctor said that the crisis was now past. ‘Would Monsieur like to see Mademoiselle?* He shook his head. ‘You must not mention to her that I have been here at all. But there will be an English gentleman here to-morrow, whom she will be glad to see.’ Having arranged everything to his satisfaction, he returned to his lodgings, sat down before a roaring wood fire, lit a cigar, and began to think. His watching was at an end; his long, sad looks at Madeline were over; and, to his own surprise, he felt a sort of regret. During the last few days he had never been free from self-reproach. He had met her at a time when his help might have saved her--yet, because she repulsed him, he had quietly stood aloof and let her drift to her ruin. Yes, although his reason told him he was not to blame, in his own mind he felt culpable. Well, it was all over now; self-accusation and recrimination would never obliterate that dark past from the girl’s life--she must live and suffer--but he vowed to himself that it should be his endeavour to make that suffering easy for her to bear.