‘A man is not likely to mistake the voice of a woman he ever fancied himself in love with.’ ‘Don’t talk like that, Wilfrid. You’ll drive me mad. How should she know you had taken the sword?’ ‘She was always urging me to take it. There lies the main sting of the treachery. But I never told you where I found the sword.’ ‘What can that have to do with it?’ ‘I found it on my bed that same morning when I woke. It could not have been there when I lay down.’ ‘Well?’ ‘Charley, I believe _she_ laid it there.’ He leaped at me like a tiger. Startled, I jumped to my feet. He laid hold of me by the throat, and griped me with a quivering grasp. Recovering my self-possession, I stood perfectly still, making no effort even to remove his hand, although it was all but choking me. In a moment or two he relaxed his hold, burst into tears, took up his hat, and walked to the door. ‘Charley! Charley! you must _not_ leave me so,’ I cried, starting forwards. ‘To-morrow, Wilfrid; to-morrow,’ he said, and was gone. He was back before I could think what to do next. Opening the door half way, he said--as if a griping hand had been on _his_ throat-- ‘I--I--I--don’t believe it, Wilfrid. You only said you believed it. _I_ don’t. Good night. I’m all right now. _Mind, I don’t believe it._’ He, shut the door. Why did I not follow him? But if I had followed him, what could I have said or done? In every man’s life come awful moments when he must meet his fate--dree his weird--alone. Alone, I say, if he have no God--for man or woman cannot aid him, cannot touch him, cannot come near him. Charley was now in one of those crises, and I could not help him. Death is counted an awful thing: it seems to me that life is an infinitely more awful thing. In the morning I received the following letter:-- ‘Dear Mr Cumbermede, ‘You will be surprised at receiving a note from me--still more at its contents. I am most anxious to see you--so much so that I venture to ask you to meet me where we can have a little quiet talk. I am in London, and for a day or two sufficiently my own mistress to leave the choice of time and place with you--only let it be when and where we shall not be interrupted. I presume on old friendship in making this extraordinary request, but I do not presume in my confidence that you will not misunderstand my motives. One thing only I _beg_--that you will not inform C.O. of the petition I make. ‘Your old friend, ‘C.C.’