d Hamilton. "I wanted the thousand pounds to
pay Roger Wentworth's widow, so I won it in France, brought it to
England, and yesterday sent it by a trusted messenger to Sundridge. Of
course the widow does not know where it came from."

"It was like you, George," said I. "One does not do a thing of that sort
for sake of a reward, but, believe me, the reward always comes."

"It was the right thing to do," he answered. "But instead of the reward
comes now the keenest grief I have ever known, the loss of the small
regard in which I was one time held by the only woman I ever loved or
ever shall love."

He stopped speaking, but I fancied he had not finished, so I did not
interrupt him. I had so much to say in return that I did not care to
begin until I had a clear field. He was becoming restless, and I could
see that the fever was mounting rapidly. After a long pause he
continued:--

"But, in a way, the loss of her regard is the least of my troubles, and
I should bear it with equanimity, for if I am honest with her, I would
not desire to keep it, as I can bring her no happiness. It is the loss of
my respect for her, the knowledge that I was wrong in deeming her better
than other women, the humiliation of learning that I was a pitiable dupe
in giving my love to one who could give herself to Charles Stuart, that
hurts."

I saw that he was trying to suppress his excitement, but it soon got the
better of him. He rose from his chair, drew the rug closer about him, and
walked rapidly to and fro across the room a minute or two. Being near my
chair, he bent down to me, looked wildly about him to see that no one was
eavesdropping, and whispered:--

"I intend to kill the king just as soon as I'm out of this. Then God or
the devil, I care not which, may finish me."

At that moment Betty came in, followed by one of the maids carrying our
dinner. I asked George to eat with me, but he refused and lay down on the
bed, drawing the rugs up to his chin and shaking in an ague. The maid
left us, but Betty remained, evidently expecting to wait on us and
incidentally to talk, for she dearly loved to relieve her mind.

As much as I liked Betty, I asked her to leave us, and when she was gone,
I drew my chair to George's bedside, leaving the dinner to cool.

"First, I want to tell you again," said I, "that Frances is not the
king's mistress, nor ever will be."

"Do you know, or do you believe?" he asked.

"I know," I answered, and followe