r face seemed for
a moment to reflect the withered, hopeless look of his. Martini walked
beside her in silence.

"I have so often wondered," she began again after a little pause; "what
he meant about the deception. It has sometimes occurred to me----"

"Yes?"

"Well, it is very strange; there was the most extraordinary personal
resemblance between them."

"Between whom?"

"Arthur and Montanelli. It was not only I who noticed it. And there was
something mysterious in the relationship between the members of that
household. Mrs. Burton, Arthur's mother, was one of the sweetest women
I ever knew. Her face had the same spiritual look as Arthur's, and I
believe they were alike in character, too. But she always seemed half
frightened, like a detected criminal; and her step-son's wife used to
treat her as no decent person treats a dog. And then Arthur himself was
such a startling contrast to all those vulgar Burtons. Of course, when
one is a child one takes everything for granted; but looking back on it
afterwards I have often wondered whether Arthur was really a Burton."

"Possibly he found out something about his mother--that may easily
have been the cause of his death, not the Cardi affair at all," Martini
interposed, offering the only consolation he could think of at the
moment. Gemma shook her head.

"If you could have seen his face after I struck him, Cesare, you would
not think that. It may be all true about Montanelli--very likely it
is--but what I have done I have done."

They walked on a little way without speaking.

"My dear," Martini said at last; "if there were any way on earth to undo
a thing that is once done, it would be worth while to brood over our old
mistakes; but as it is, let the dead bury their dead. It is a terrible
story, but at least the poor lad is out of it now, and luckier than some
of those that are left--the ones that are in exile and in prison. You
and I have them to think of, we have no right to eat out our hearts for
the dead. Remember what your own Shelley says: 'The past is Death's,
the future is thine own.' Take it, while it is still yours, and fix your
mind, not on what you may have done long ago to hurt, but on what you
can do now to help."

In his earnestness he had taken her hand. He dropped it suddenly and
drew back at the sound of a soft, cold, drawling voice behind him.

"Monsignor Montan-n-nelli," murmured this languid voice, "is undoubtedly
all you say, my dear doctor.