act of unnecessary cruelty when that
strife was over, and the victory was won. He had not bound his victim
till the new flight of that victim had compelled him; nor had he
spoken even one harsh word to him. He had captured him fairly and
bravely too, and in the most quiet and unostentatious manner had
handed him over to the police of the country.

Of course there were some things which might have been more agreeable
under the circumstances. The mystery which surrounded this man was
not pleasant. It was not pleasant, after having captured him, to find
himself still baffled in his endeavors to understand him or his
motive; to find that this man had forced him to interweave the case
of Lady Chetwynde with that of Zillah, when to his mind those two
cases were as far asunder as the poles. Yet, after all, the
perplexity which arose from this could not interfere with the
enjoyment of his triumph. Baffled he might be, but still there was no
reason why he should not enjoy the calm pleasure which arises from
the consciousness of having well and fully performed a virtuous
action, and of having done one's duty both to one's neighbor and
one's self.

So Obed, as he drove about before going home, enjoyed the full
consciousness of his own merit. He felt at peace with himself, with
the world at large, and, for that matter, even with Gualtier. So long
as Gualtier had baffled him and eluded his most ardent search, he had
experienced the bitterest and the most vindictive feelings toward the
villain who had perpetrated such foul crimes, and persisted in
evading all pursuit. But now that this mysterious villain had been
captured, and by himself, he felt that bitterness and vindictiveness
no longer. He was satisfied that the law would administer to him the
full punishment which was due to his crimes, and as far as he was
concerned personally he had no feeling against him. He was simply
desirous of justice.

Seated thus in his brougham he drove past Giotto's Campanile, and
past those immortal gates of bronze which Ghiberti made for the
Baptistery, and which Michael Angelo declared to be worthy of being
the gates of Paradise. It was just at this last place, as the
brougham was moving leisurely on, that his attention was arrested by
a figure which was seated on the stone steps immediately outside of
one of those gates. It was a woman, elderly, decrepit, and apparently
poor. She was dressed in deep mourning. She was very pale, her hair
was