“It was all a mistake--a stupid mistake, that idea of mine,” she cried, passionately. “Men are such fools. I ought not to have tried to keep you apart. He has been grim and furious always because he could not see you. I have had to suffer for it. It has been hateful. Oh, if you want to escape the greatest, the most hideous torture in this world,” she cried, passionately, her thin voice quavering with nervous agitation, “pray to God that you may never love a man who cares nothing for you. It is unbearable! It is worse than hell! One is always humiliated, always in the dust.” I was very sorry for her, and she could not fail to see it. “If you are so sure that he does not care for you--that he is not likely to care for you--would it not be better to go away and try to forget him?” I said. “It can only make you more miserable to stay here, if he is not kind to you.” She threw a curious glance at me. It was full of suspicion and full of malice. “Oh, yes! of course you would advise me to go away,” she exclaimed, spitefully. “You would give a good deal to be rid of me. I know. I wish----” She leaned over a little nearer to me, and drew in her breath with a little hiss. Her eyes were fixed upon my face eagerly. “You wish what?” I asked her, calmly. “I wish that I understood you; I wish I knew what you were afraid of. What have you to do with Philip Maltabar? If he is not your lover, who is he? If he is not your lover, what of Bruce Deville? Oh! if you have been fooling me!” she muttered, with glistening eyes. “You are a little enigmatic,” I said, coldly. “You seem to think that you have a right to know every detail of my private life.” “I want to know more, at any rate, than you will tell me,” she answered; “yet there is just this for you to remember. I am one of those whose love is stronger than their hate. For my love’s sake I have forgotten to hate. But it may be that my love is vain. Then I shall put it from me if I can--crush it even though my life dies with it. But I shall not forget to hate. I came here with a purpose. It has grown weak, but it may grow strong again. Do you understand me?” “You mean in plain words that if you do not succeed with Mr. Deville, you will recommence your search for the man you call Philip Maltabar.” She nodded her head slowly; her keen eyes were seeking to read mine. “You will do as you choose, of course,” I answered; “as regards Mr. Deville, I can do no more for you than I have done.” She commenced twisting her fingers nervously together, and her eyes never left my face. “I think that you could do more than you have done,” she said, meaningly. “You could do more if you would. That is why I am here. I have something to say to you about it.” “What is it?” I asked. “Better be plain with me. We have been talking riddles long enough.”