on contrasted
forcibly with the subtle dreaminess characteristic of Alan Walcott's
face. Alan eyed him curiously, as if doubtful whether he should proceed.

"I am not altogether an Englishman," he said presently, "which may
account in your eyes for some lack of sense. I want you, as a friend, in
the most conventional manner possible. Come out with me and let us talk
it over."

The two men went out and talked together for upwards of an hour. When
they separated the expression of their faces afforded a curious
contrast. Alan looked defiant, resolved, almost triumphant; but Brooke
Dalton went on his way wagging his head in a depressed and melancholy
manner, as if his soul were afflicted by misgivings of many kinds.

* * * * *

Mr. Alan Walcott had said that he should leave Aix-les-Bains next day,
but the state of his wife's health rendered it impossible for her to
quit the hotel, and he could not very well separate himself from her.
She continued for some time in shrieking hysterics, varied by fainting
fits; and when she became quieter, under the influence of a soporific
administered by the doctor, she declared herself quite too ill and
exhausted to rise from her bed. Her husband remained with her night and
day, until the second morning, when he escaped from her sight and ken
for a couple of hours, and absolutely refused to tell her where he had
been. His refusal seemed to produce a quieting effect upon her. She
became very still, and lay watching him, with a sullen, puzzled look in
her great dark eyes. He took up a paper and began to read, with an
assumption of complete calmness and unconcern; but she saw that he was
paler than usual, and that his hand shook a little as he turned the
pages of his _Galignani_. Presently she asked, in a subdued voice, for
something to drink. He brought her a glass of claret and water, and she
raised herself a little on one arm to take it from him. Suddenly she
uttered a loud cry, and fell back gasping upon her pillows.

"Mon Dieu!" she cried, "there is blood upon your cuff."

Alan looked down hastily. It was true enough: his white cuff was stained
with red.

"You have killed him!" she said. "You have murdered him, you wretch, you
murderer----"

"Not at all," said Walcott with the greatest composure. "Upon my word, I
rather wish I had. I think he deserved it. He has got off very easily."

"You had a meeting?" his wife shrieked, her eyes beginning to f