m--just once! I've got to hear the truth----"

"I've told you the truth," he repeated doggedly. "It's no interest to
me to try and prevent you from seeing him. I know I've done for
whatever chance I had with you. Oh, for heaven's sake believe that
it's only for your sake I want to take you back!"

She shook her head.

In her heart she found it impossible to believe him; she thought
of the letters she had received from Raymond, the money--the
presents--why even this coat she wore had come from him; she felt
that she could laugh at this man opposite to her. A little smile
curved her lips; a contemptuous smile it seemed to Micky.

For the first time the injustice of it all seemed to strike him; for
him who had done his best she had nothing but dislike and contempt,
but for the man who had left her with a brutal letter of farewell, who
had thrown her over because she had no money, she had endless faith
and trust, and love!

He broke out in his agitation.

"I've tried to spare you--I've done my best, but you won't let me ...
I've kept back the truth, but now you'll have to hear it if nothing
else will keep you from him. He's never given you a thought since he
left London--he imagines that you've forgotten him. It was he you saw
at the Comedy Theatre that night when June and I were with you. He
didn't even trouble to let you know that he was in London--that's how
he cares for you--this man you refuse to believe one word against
..." His eyes flamed as they met hers.

She was staring at him now; her face was white and incredulous.

"If you--if you think I'm going to believe that----" she began, in a
high, unnatural voice. She stopped; she seemed to realise all at once
that he was speaking the truth. She leaned towards him. Her breath
came in broken gasps.

"Those letters!" she said shrilly. "Whose letters? They were from
him--they were from him--weren't they from him?" she asked hoarsely.

"No," said Micky doggedly.

Better to hurt her now, he told himself, than to let her go on to
worse pain and humiliation.

There was a tragic silence; then she asked again, in a whisper--

"Then who--who wrote them?"

A wave of crimson flooded Micky's white face. He dropped his head in
his hands as if he could not bear to meet her eyes.

"I did," he said brokenly.

CHAPTER XXIX

A long moment of silence followed Micky's broken confession. He dared
not look at Esther, though she was staring at him, staring hard,