Langholm could not help the double emphasis; to him it seemed a grotesque turning of the tables, a too poetically just ending to that misspent day. It was all he could do to repress a smile. "Yes, I followed you," the young Italian repeated, with his taking accent, in his touching voice; "and I beg your pardon for doing so--though I would do the same again--I will tell you why. I thought that you were talking about me while I was strumming to them at the club. It is possible, of course, that I was quite mistaken; but when you went out I stopped at once and asked questions. And they told me you were a friend of--a great friend of mine--of Mrs. Minchin!" "It is true enough," said Langholm, after a pause. "Well?" "She was a very great friend of mine," repeated Severino. "That was all." And he sighed. "So I have heard," said Langholm, with sympathy. "I can well believe it, for I might almost say the same of her myself." The 'bus toiled on beside the park. The two long lines of lights rose gently ahead until they almost met, and the two men watched them as they spoke. "Until to-day," continued Severino, "I did not know whether she was dead or alive." "She is both alive and well." "And married again?" "And married again." There was a long pause. The park ended first. "I want you to do me a great favor," said Severino in Knightsbridge. "She was so good to me! I shall never forget it, and yet I have never been able to thank her. I nearly died--it was at that time--and when I remembered, she had disappeared. I beg and beseech you, Mr. Langholm, to tell me her name, and where she is living now!" Langholm looked at his companion in the confluence of lights at the Sloane Street corner. The pale face was alight with passion, the sunken eyes ablaze. "I cannot tell you," he answered, shortly. "Is it your own name?" "Good God, no!" And Langholm laughed harshly. "Will you not even tell me where she lives?" "I cannot, without her leave; but if you like I will tell her about you." There was no answer as they drove on. Then of a sudden Langholm's arm was seized and crushed by bony fingers. "I am dying," the low voice whispered hoarsely in his ear. "Can't you see it for yourself? I shall never get better; it might be a year or two, it may be weeks. But I want to see her again and make sure. Yes, I love her! There is no sense in denying it. But it is all on my side, and I am dying, and she has married again! What harm can it do anybody if I see her once more?" The sunken eyes were filled with tears. There were more tears in the hollow voice. Langholm was deeply touched. "My dear fellow," he said, "I will let her know. No, no, not that, of course! But I will write to her at once--to-night! Will that not do?" Severino thanked him, with a heavy sigh. "Oh, don't get down," he added, as Langholm rose. "I won't talk about her any more." "I am staying in this street," explained Langholm, guardedly.