arly loved. The
care of her was a charge upon his conscience and upon his honour. Any
open association with him he felt might be to her detriment later on in
life. All that he could do was to watch over her from a distance. He saw
her, as he imagined, in danger. What course was open to him? Forget for
the moment that Major Delahaye was your husband. Put yourself in the
place of Feurgeres. What could he do but strike?"

"He broke the law," she said coldly, "the law of men and of God. He must
take the consequences. I am not a vindictive woman. I would have
forgiven him for making a scene, for striking my husband, or taking away
the child by force. But he went too far."

"Have you," I asked, "been to the police?"

"Not yet."

I caught at this faint hope.

"You came here to see him first? You have something to propose--some
compromise?"

She shook her head slowly.

"Between Monsieur Feurgeres and myself," she said, "there can be no
question of anything of the sort. There is nothing which he could offer
me, nothing within his power to offer, which could influence me in the
slightest."

"Then why," I asked, "are you here?"

"To see you," she answered. "I want to ask you this, Arnold. You wish
Monsieur Feurgeres to go free. You wish to stay my hand. What price are
you willing to pay?"

I looked at her blankly. As yet her meaning was hidden from me.

"Any price!" I declared.

Then she leaned over towards me.

"What is he to you, Arnold--this man?" she asked softly. "You are
wonderfully loyal to some of your friends."

"I know the story of his life," I answered, "and it is enough. Besides,
he is an old man, and I fancy that his health is failing. Let him end
his days in peace. You will never regret it, Eileen. If my gratitude is
worth anything to you----"

"I want," she interrupted, "more than your gratitude."

We sat looking at each other for a moment in a silence which I for my
part could not have broken. I read in her face, in her altered
expression, and the softened gleam of her eyes, all that I was expected
to read. I said nothing.

"It is not so very many years, Arnold," she went on, "since you cared
for me, or said that you did. I have not changed so much, have I? Give
up this senseless pursuit of a child. Oh, you guard your secret very
bravely, but you cannot hide the truth from me. It is not all
philanthropy which has made you such a squire of dames. You believe that
you care for her--that child!