its way into the heart of one man."

"It is possible," she remarked, "that he was mad. The man who found it
sufficiently amusing to come to the theatre night after night could
scarcely have been in full possession of his senses."

"That is possible," he admitted; "but I do not believe it. The man's
face was sad enough, but it was not the face of a madman."

"You did see his face, then?"

"On the last night of the play," he continued. "You remember you were
going on to Lady Truton's, so I did not come behind. But I had a fancy
to see you for a moment, and I came round into Pitt Street just as you
were driving off. On the other side of the way this man was standing
watching you!"

She looked at him with a suddenly kindled interest--or was it
fear?--in her dark eyes. The colour had left her cheeks; she was white
to the lips.

"Watching me?"

"Yes. As your carriage drove off he stood watching it. I don't know
what prompted me, but I crossed the street to speak to him. He seemed
such a lone, mournful figure standing there half dazed, shabby,
muttering softly to himself. But when he saw me coming, he gave one
half-frightened look at me and ran, literally ran down the street on
to the Strand. I could not follow,--the police would have stopped him.
So he disappeared."

"You saw his face. What was he like?"

Berenice had leaned right back amongst the yielding cushions of her
divan, and he could scarcely see her face. Yet her voice sounded to
him strange and forced. He looked at her in some surprise.

"I had a glimpse of it. It was an ordinary face enough; in fact, it
disappointed me a little. But the odd part of it was that it seemed
vaguely familiar to me. I have seen it before, often. Yet, try as I
will, I cannot recollect where, or under what circumstances."

"At Oxford," she suggested. "By the bye, what was your college?"

"St. John's. No, I do not think,--I hope that it was not at Oxford.
Some day I shall think of it quite suddenly."

Berenice rose from her chair with a sudden, tempestuous movement and
stood before him.

"Listen!" she exclaimed. "Supposing I were to tell you that I knew or
could guess who that man was--why he came! Oh, if I were to tell you
that I were a fraud, that----"

Matravers stopped her.

"I beg," he said, "that you will tell me nothing!"

There was a short silence. Berenice seemed on the point of breaking
down. She was nervously lacing and interlacing her fingers. Her breath