"As Christ might have," she said with equal simplicity. The lawyer, half irritably, turned away. "I wish you'd drop that Christ idea," he muttered. "I'm a man, I'm not a god. I am a man, and I want a dear woman who doesn't want me." She looked at him; her hands went out, her eyes soft, pleading. "Watts, dear, I am always ready to come from gratitude; indeed, dear friend, I would come trustingly ... in memory of what you did." "No," he said firmly, "I want love, I don't want your trust and gratitude, not even your dear hands and lips." His soul leaped into his eyes, and he faced her implacably. "I want the thing I don't believe George got, but which you won't let me have. I want you. Your whole being, _you_, Eleanor." She sat there like a person stunned. The thing that he had said went to some hidden place in her and pulled aside a temple curtain; for a moment her eyes flashed, outrage stiffened her form; then with a dignity the man could not fathom, the woman who had been a wife looked at him. "I think," she said gently, "that you could not have meant to say that, that you have forgotten yourself." It was the veiled woman of ice. Watts knew her well. The man got up, paced back and forth, his passionate heart pounding. Then he stood before her. "I'm sorry," he said, "order me out of here if you want to; I know I'm a cad." Watts, the self-controlled man of the world, felt his lips tremble. "Order me out," he blurted clumsily. "I'm--I'm----" But she looked up, smiling gravely, and took his hand. "Sit down, Watts dear, don't be impatient and try," her dark blue eyes filled with tears, "try to understand." "I do," said the man miserably, "I do understand. I'm a hound, Eleanor." With a sigh the lawyer turned back to the letter. "There ought to be a search for Martin," he said thoughtfully. "What clues have you? Did he wear any one ring or anything; was there any peculiarity about him, scars or blemishes? Have you a photo of him?"