“That you leave the neighborhood within a week.” Maltravers’ black brows lifted a moment, but he smiled as before and seemed perfectly agreeable. “A small matter,” he said. “I was preparing to leave, intending to travel abroad. There will be no difficulty in this.” John Strong could not refrain from blurting out his thoughts. “And Ophelia Gusset?” “The Honorable Miss Gusset, Mr. Strong, is nothing to me.” “Nothing to you?” “Nothing, sir—nothing. What I have done I have done; it belongs to the past. Take the hint, sir; but understand, as a gentleman, I will not betray a woman. Her affairs are her affairs; I meddle no further. And the second demand?” “That you inform me who it was that wrote a certain anonymous letter concerning my son.” Maltravers, suave diplomat, contrived to conjure up a laugh over the question. “Really, Mr. Strong,” he said, “I have not the faintest notion.” “Impossible.” Turning suddenly, the soldier strode to a bureau, unlocked it, fumbled in a pigeon-hole, drew out a crumpled sheet of note-paper, tossed it on the table before John Strong. “The very letter,” he said, apparently much amused; “take it, sir, and unravel the mystery for yourself. Eve might have written it, so far as I am concerned.” “And now—” “We had better shake hands, Mr. Strong. Your son was innocent, perfectly innocent. This, of course, is in confidence. In the witness-box I should swear the opposite.” “By God!” said the elder man, “where are we, on our heads or on our feet?” “Ask God, sir,” said the soldier, “for is not God Himself a paradox?” Thus, with this last gross piece of inconsistency, the parley ended, as many such a passage of passion has ended, and will end. Maltravers had sheltered himself behind the woman who had trusted him. Wrong-doer and avenger cried a truce over the business, shirking the last death-grip, the one from selfishness, the other because hearts more dear would have been the more deeply wounded. For man cannot conquer truth at times save by dragging the innocent through the dust, even as Achilles dragged Hector about the walls of Troy. XLV IN her turret-room at Gabingly, Ophelia sat before an open window with a letter lying in her lap. There was a look of apathy upon her face, an apathy so deep and utter that life seemed stagnant in her as though her heart stood still. Her eyes stared over the woods and meadows towards the sea, eyes that beheld nothing, comprehended nothing. Only her deep breathing betrayed the passions that still worked within. It was Maltravers’ letter that lay open in her lap, the letter of a coward and a hypocrite, full of euphemistic cunning and of subtle sentiment. For an hour or more Ophelia had sat silent and motionless before the window, with the glib sentences ebbing and flowing through her brain. Anger had failed her in that hour; shame and loneliness seemed closing about her soul.