He broke off, heated by his unusual eloquence, and uncomfortably aware of the expression of black hate on his listener's face. Hallam sat silent, staring straight before him. The news of the child was the last dreg of bitterness in the cup which he was forced to drain. The thought of the child infuriated him, filled him with intolerable jealousy. Esme, his wife,--with a child--which was not his! The thing would not bear thinking about. And yet it stuck in his thoughts, tormented his thoughts, would not be dismissed however much he strove to thrust it aside. In the moment when Jim Bainbridge let fall this bomb Hallam's feeling for his wife underwent a sudden revulsion. It seemed to him that his love died as surely as if it had never been. It seemed to him, too, though he knew the thought to be an injustice, that the wife he had loved was unworthy, was no better than a light woman. She had consoled herself very speedily. His years of self-discipline had been spent in vain. He had gained a victory over himself at a terrible price--the price of his wife. He had lost the fruits of his labour; even as a man who will sometimes strive, putting all his endeavour into one harvest, to be ruthlessly cheated of the profit of his toil by some unforeseen calamity, such as drought or other disaster. These things happen: it is the throw of the dice of chance. "You had to know," remarked Jim Bainbridge abruptly, feeling the urgency to say something to end the strained silence which had followed upon his disclosure, and busying himself with his pipe in order to avoid seeing the play of bitter emotion which disfigured the other man's features. "Some one had to tell you. It complicates matters." "Yes." Hallam stood up. "I wasn't prepared for this," he said. "I've got to think about it. I'll see you again some other time. If you want me, I'm staying at the `Grand.'" "Man, I'm sorry about this," Bainbridge said, and held out his hand. Hallam did not even see it. Like a man in a trance he turned and walked out of the place. Book 4--CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO. Jim Bainbridge whistled. He filled his pipe and lighted it, and let it go out again. He repeated this performance until he had exhausted all the matches in his box; then he put the pipe down and sat back in his seat, with his thumbs in his braces, and cogitated. It was a hell of a mess. No other phrase described the situation so aptly. It _was_ a hell of a mess. He could not see how it was to be cleaned up exactly. Why the devil, instead of being taken prisoner, could not the fellow have stopped a bullet? That would have been a creditable finish. Well, he hadn't. He was back again; and it looked as though there was going to be the hell of a fuss.