ut his foot
on the ashes.

"'Rather a waste of time, wasn't it?' I said with a laugh.

"'Yes, all of it has been a waste of time--and my life with it. Now
and then I write these letters. They're always burned in the end. No
use--nothing to gain. Yes, waste of time. There are some things in the
world that no man ought ever to ask forgiveness for.' He threw himself
into a chair and went on:--

"'You never went crazy mad over a woman, did you? No--you're not built
that way. I am. She was different from the women I had met. She was not
of my people--she was English. We met first in Brussels; then I followed
her to Vienna. For six months she was free to do as she pleased. We
lived the life--well, you know! Then her husband returned.'

"'Oh, she was married!' I remarked casually.

"'Yes, and to a man you would have thought she would have been true
to, although he was nearly twice her age. I knew all this--knew when
I started in to make her love me--as a matter of pride first--as a boy
walks on thin ice, believing he can cross in safety. Perhaps she had
some such idea about me. Then the crust gave way, and we were both in
the depths. The affair had lasted about six months--all the time her
husband was gone. Then I either had to face the consequences or leave
Vienna. To have done the first meant ruin to her; the last meant ruin to
me. It had not been her fault--it had been mine. He sent me word that he
would shoot me at sight, and he meant it. But the madness had not worked
out of me yet. She clung to me like a frightened child in her
agony, begging me not to leave her--not to meet her husband; to go
somewhere--suddenly, as if I had been ordered away by my government;
to make no reply to her husband, who, so far, could prove
nothing--somewhere, later on, when he was again on a mission, we could
meet.

"'You have known me now for some time--the last month intimately. Do I
look like a coward and a cur? Well, I am both. That very night I saw him
coming toward my quarters in search of me. Did I face him? No. I stooped
down behind a fence and hid until he passed.

"'That summer, some months later, we met in Lucerne. She had left him
in Venice and he was to meet her in Paris. Two days later he walked into
the small hotel where she had stopped and the end came.

"'But I took her with me this time. One of the porters who knew him and
knew her helped; and we boarded the night train for Paris without his
finding us. I had then