A seething disgust of himself swept upward from his heart; soon it seemed to him that such a monstrosity, such a caricature of a man, ought not to live. Grimly it occurred to him that one day he might be held up as an example to bad children, the threat of becoming like him being used as a means of inducing them to yield to parental authority. His thoughts became more self-accusative and gruesome. When the door opened and some one entered he cursed that he had not said half an hour to Francis instead of ten minutes. "Arnold! For God's sake leave me alone, man, for another twenty minutes." "Monsieur, it is not Arnold." Wenzel sat perfectly still. The low, vibrant intonation echoed the music of the voice which had persistently rung in his ears the last few days. "Mademoiselle! I did not expect you," 'You know who it is then, monsieur?" "You are Elizabeth Kiss." She laughed softly. "You must be able to see in the dark, monsieur. My eyes cannot pierce the veil of blackness to observe even my hand, and yet you recognize me!" "It is not your face I recognize, mademoiselle, but your voice." "But you heard it for so short a time that--that awful night." "Yet I have not forgotten it. It reminded me of some one I knew many years ago." A surging memory of his last day with Zita carried him quickly back into the past, but it hurt so that he forced himself to forget, to think only of the present. "How came you here? I was expecting Terhune." "I know," she replied softly. "I overheard Francis telling Monsieur Terhune. I was afraid that perhaps you would refuse to see me, so I slipped in beforehand." "You did wrong! Why did you?" "Because I shall never rest with an easy conscience until I have told you of the gratitude which is in my heart for all that you have done for my father and for me." "Stop! Mademoiselle, believe me, I do not doubt that gratitude for one minute, and if you wish to express it you can do so in no better way than by dropping the subject immediately and never renewing it again." "But, monsieur, it seems so--so callous, so cold, to let it pass in that way. Yet, if you will not listen to all I would like to say in regard to what you have done personally for my father and me, will you at least let me tell you of what you have done for the nation? "For years my father has been engaged in a stupendous literary task, that of writing up the personal history of the Apostolic Kings of Hungary, and the evolution of our race. He has nearly finished--a year, two years may see his task completed. If he--he had died, the history would have perished with him, for only he knows where the work is hidden. Monsieur, do you not feel proud that you have done this for the nation?" He was deeply stirred by the story she told him. "I am glad you have told me," he said simply.