He walked about the room quivering from the outburst. Clementina regarded him with amazed interest. This was a new, undreamed of Quixtus, a human creature that had passed through torment. “Tell me what is on your mind,” she said quietly. “It might ease it.” “No,” said he, halting before her. “Not to my dying day. There are things one must keep within oneself till they eat away one’s vitals. I wish I had never come here.” “You came here on an errand of mercy, and as far as you were concerned you performed it.” “I came here with hate in my heart, I tell you. I came here on an errand of evil. And outside the door of his room my purpose failed me—and I sent him my love. And then I went in and saw him—dead.” “And you forgave him,” said Clementina. “No; I prayed that God would.” He turned away. Clementina rose from her chair by the writing-table and followed him. “What was between you and Will Hammersley?” For an instant he had an impulse to tell her, she looked so strong, so honest. But he checked it. Confidence was impossible. The shame of the dead must be buried with the dead. He pointed to the documents lying on the table. “He thought I never knew. I never knew,” said he. “I give it up,” said Clementina. A memory smote him. He bent his brows upon her. His eyes were sad and clear. “You have no inkling of the matter?” “None in the least. Good Lord!” she broke out impatiently, “if I had, do you suppose I’d be cross-questioning you? I’d be trying to help you, as I want to do.” He threw himself wearily into a chair and leant his head on his hand. “I’ve had queer experiences of late,” he said. “I’ve learned to trust nobody. How can I tell that you’re sincere in saying you want to help me?” Clementina puckered up her face. “What’s that? Here am I, who have been abusing you all your life, now doing violence to my traditions and saying let us kiss and be friends—just at the very moment when you want friends more than you ever did in your born days—and you ask me if I’m sincere! Lord in heaven! Did you ever know me to be even decently polite to creatures I didn’t care about?” Clementina was indignant. The faint shadow of a smile passed across Quixtus’s face. “You’ve not always been polite to me, Clementina. This change to solicitude is surprising. _Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes._ Which means——” “Do you suppose you’re the only person who knows tags out of the Latin grammar?” she snapped. Then she laughed in her dry way. “Don’t let us begin to quarrel. We’ve got a child, you and I. I hope you realise that. If we were its real father and mother we might quarrel with impunity. As we’re not, we can’t. What are we going to do?” Quixtus thought deeply for a long time. His sensitive nature shrank from the duty imposed. If he accepted it he would be the dead man’s dupe to the end of the chapter. “You have seen the little girl?” he inquired at last. “Yes. Been with her most of the day.” “Do you like her?”