. She was impregnable behind; that
barrier of manners which she upheld so skillfully. She continued to
look at me for some seconds and to smile--so gently, so mildly. I
think I groaned."

"She began to talk again of the clouds, but I could not follow what
she said. That was my hour of impotence. Madame, I have seen battles
and slaughter and found no meaning in them. But that isolated tragedy
boxed up in the little house between the squalid town and the
lugubrious desert--it sucked the strength from my bones. She
continued to speak; the cultivated sweetness of her voice came and
went in my ears like a maddening distraction from some grave matter
in hand. I think I was on the point of breaking in, violently,
hysterically, when I cast a look at the lighted window again. I cried
out to her."

"'Look! Look!' I cried."

"She did not turn. 'I have seen the sea like that at Naples,' she was
saying, gazing out to the desert, with her back to the house. 'With
the moon shining over Capri----'"

"'For the love of God!' I said, and made one step toward the house.
But it was too late. The shadowed hand--and what it held--rose; the
shadowed head bent to meet it."

"Even at the sound of the shot she did not turn. 'What was that?' she
said tranquilly."

"For the moment I could not speak. I had to gulp and breathe to
recover myself."

"'Let us go and see,' I said then. 'The hour is past, and the letter
of importance is finished.'"

"She nodded. 'By all means,' she agreed carelessly, and I followed
her into the house."

"Once again I will spare Madame la Comtesse the details. Bertin had
evaded arrest. At the end of all his laborings and groanings, the
instant of resolution had come to him and he had made use of it. On
the table were paper and writing-things; one note was finished."

"'It is not for me,' said Madame Bertin, as she leaned upon the table
and read it. I was laying a sheet upon the body; when I rose she
handed it to me. It bore neither name nor address; the poor futile
life had blundered out without even this thing completed. It was
short, and to some woman. 'Tres-chere amie,' it said; 'once I made a
mistake. I have paid for it. You laughed at me once; You would not
laugh now. If you could see----'"

The Colonel stopped; the Comtesse was holding out both hands as
though supplicating him. Elsie Gray rose and bent over her. The
Comtesse put her gently aside.

"You have that letter?" she asked.

The little Col