"You are quite right, quite right," Sonia admitted in a voice trembling with emotion. "You were justified to undeceive him as you did. I know, alas! how black is my heart--how blunted is all the womanly feeling I once possessed, like you. But you have been nurtured in the lap of luxury, while I, fed from infancy upon the offal of a slum, and taught to regard the world from a cynical point of view, have grown old in evil-doing, and am now a mere derelict in the stream of life. Long ago we met, and parted. I treated you, as I did others, as an enemy. We have now met again, and I, conscience-stricken and penitent, have come to atone for the past--to prove your friend, to beg forgiveness." My wife shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of quick impatience. "Ah! You don't believe I am in earnest," cried the unhappy woman. "Has it never occurred to you that I alone can free you from the bond that has held you aloof from your husband?" "What do you mean?" cried Ella, with a puzzled expression. "I mean," she answered, in a deep, earnest voice. "I mean that if you will make full and open confession to Geoffrey I will furnish you with proof positive of the identity of the murderer of Dudley Ogle. By this means only can you obtain freedom from your bondage of guilt." "My freedom!" echoed my wife. She was pale as death; her hot, dry lips moved convulsively, and she glanced at me in feverish apprehension. "How can you give me my freedom?" "By revealing the truth," Sonia answered. "When you have told Geoffrey all, then will I disclose the terrible secret that I have selfishly kept from you because I envied you your happiness." The silence remained unbroken for some moments. Ella stood with her gloved hands clasped before her. The haughty demeanour of the daughter of the Romanoffs had entirely forsaken her; with head bent she stood immovable as a statue. Terror and despair showed themselves in her clear, bright eyes. It seemed as though she mistrusted this woman of evil repute, whose assertions half induced her to confess to me. "Come," Sonia said, "speak, and freedom, love and happiness are yours." Her breast, beneath its lace and flimsy muslin, heaved and fell. Her fingers hitched themselves nervously in the trimming of her gown. Then, at last, with sudden resolve, she turned, and with terror-stricken eyes fixed upon me, said in English, in low, faltering tone,-- "To confess to you, Geoffrey, will cause you to hate, ah! even to curse me. After to-day I fear we shall part never again to meet." "No, no," I cried, advancing to take her soft hand in mine. "Tell me your secret. Then let us hear what Sonia has to reveal." "Ah! mine is a wretched, horrible story of duplicity," my wife faltered, standing in an attitude of deep dejection. "Although I am a Grand Duchess, the bearer of an Imperial name, I can hope for neither pity nor mercy from you, nor from the world outside." "Why?"