ooked at her. It seemed to her that there was
something almost satanic in the smile which alone disturbed the serenity
of his face.

"Certainly I am," he answered; "when I returned from America, it
suited me to change my identity. You must not doubt anything that
Mr. Aynesworth says. I can assure you that he is a most truthful and
conscientious young man. I shall be able to give him a testimonial with
a perfectly clear conscience."

Juliet shuddered as she turned away. All the joy of life seemed to have
gone from her face.

"You are Mr. Wingrave--the Mr. Wingrave. Oh! I can't believe it," she
broke off suddenly. "No one could have been so kind, so generous, as you
have been to me."

She looked from one to the other of the two men. Both were silent, but
whereas Aynesworth had turned his head away, Wingrave's position and
attitude were unchanged. She moved suddenly over towards him. One hand
fell almost caressingly upon his shoulder. She looked eagerly into his
face.

"Tell me--that it isn't all true," she begged. "Tell me that your
kindness to me, at least, was real--that you did not mean it to be for
my unhappiness afterwards. Please tell me that. I think if you asked me,
if you cared to ask me, that I could forgive everything else."

"Every vice, save one," Wingrave murmured, "Nature has lavished upon me.
I am a poor liar. It is perfectly true that my object in life has
been exactly as Aynesworth has stated it. I may have been more or less
successful--Aynesworth can tell you that, too. As regards yourself--"

"Yes?" she exclaimed.

"I congratulate you upon your escape," Wingrave said. "Aynesworth is
right. Association of any sort with me is for your evil!"

She covered her face with her hands. Even his tone was different.
She felt that this man was a stranger, and a stranger to be feared.
Aynesworth came over to her side and drew her away.

"I have a cart outside," he said. "I am going to take you to Truro--"

Wingrave heard the gate close after them--he heard the rumble of the
cart in the road growing fainter and fainter. He was alone now in the
garden, and the darkness was closing around him. He staggered to his
feet. His face was back in its old set lines. He was once more at war
with the world.

REVENGE IS--BITTER

At no time during his career did Wingrave appear before the public more
prominently than during the next few months. As London began to fill up
again, during the early part of Octo