[Illustration: "I STOOD TRANSFIXED."]

"Wait a minute. I rose as she entered, and confronted her. She looked
at me calmly, and then stood as though expecting to be introduced.
There was no emotion visible whatever. She was prepared for it: I was
not: and so she was as cool as when I saw her last, and, what is more,
just as young and beautiful."

"The devil!" cried Hawbury.

Dacres poured out another glass of ale and drank it. His hand trembled
slightly as he put down the glass, and he sat for some time in thought
before he went on.

"Well, Lady Dalrymple introduced us. It was Mrs. Willoughby!"

"By Jove!" cried Hawbury. "I saw you were coming to that."

"Well, you know, the whole thing was so sudden, so unexpected, and so
perfectly overwhelming, that I stood transfixed. I said nothing. I
believe I bowed, and then somehow or other, I really don't know how, I
got away, and, mounting my horse, rode off like a madman. Then I came
home, and here you see me."

There was a silence now for some time.

"Are you sure that it was your wife?"

"Of course I am. How could I be mistaken?"

"Are you sure the name was Willoughby?"

"Perfectly sure."

"And that is the name your wife took?"

"Yes; I told you so before, didn't I?"

"Yes. But think now. Mightn't there be some mistake?"

"Pooh! how could there be any mistake?"

"Didn't you see any change in her?"

"No, only that she looked much more quiet than she used to. Not so
active, you know. In her best days she was always excitable, and a
little demonstrative; but now she seems to have sobered down, and is
as quiet and well-bred as any of the others."

"Was there not any change in her at all?"

"Not so much as I would have supposed; certainly not so much as there
is in me. But then I've been knocking about all over the world, and
she's been living a life of peace and calm, with the sweet
consciousness of having triumphed over a hated husband, and possessing
a handsome competency. Now she mingles in the best society. She
associates with lords and ladies. She enjoys life in England, while I
am an exile. No doubt she passes for a fine young widow. No doubt,
too, she has lots of admirers. They aspire to her hand. They write
poetry to her. They make love to her. Confound her!"

Dacres's voice grew more and more agitated and excited as he spoke,
and at length his tirade against his wife ended in something that was
almost a roar.

Hawbury said nothing, but list