ses, and your lawyers told in the States--that you bribed
those precious newspapers to tell?"

"Of course I believed it!" she said fiercely. "And as for lies, it was
you who began them."

"You _believed_ that I had betrayed you with Chloe Fairmile?" He raised
himself again, fixing his strange deep-set gaze upon her.

"I never said----"

"No! To that length you didn't quite go. I admit it. You were able to
get your way without it." He sank back in his chair again. "No, my
remark had nothing to do with Chloe. I have never set eyes on her since
I left you at Heston. But--there was a girl, a shop-girl, a poor little
thing, rather pretty. I came across her about six months ago--it doesn't
matter how. She loves me, she was awfully good to me, a regular little
brick. Some day I shall tell Herbert all about her--not yet--though, of
course, he suspects. She'd serve your purpose, if you thought it worth
while. But you won't----"

"You're--living with her--now?"

"No. I broke with her a fortnight ago, after I'd seen those doctors. She
made me see them, poor little soul. Then I went to say good-bye to her,
and she," his voice shook a little, "she took it hard. But it's all
right. I'm not going to risk her life, or saddle her with a dying man.
She's with her sister. She'll get over it."

He turned his head towards the window, his eyes pursued the white sails
on the darkening blue outside.

"It's been a bad business, but it wasn't altogether my fault. I saved
her from someone else, and she saved me, once or twice, from blowing my
brains out."

"What did the doctors say to you?" asked Daphne, brusquely, after a
pause.

"They gave me about two years," he said, indifferently, turning to knock
off the end of his cigarette. "That doesn't matter." Then, as his eyes
caught her face, a sudden animation sprang into his. He drew his chair
nearer to her and threw away his cigarette. "Look here, Daphne, don't
let's waste time. We shall never see each other again, and there are a
number of things I want to know. Tell me everything you can remember
about Beatty that last six months--and about her illness, you
understand--never mind repeating what you told Boyson, and he told me.
But there's lots more, there must be. Did she ever ask for me? Boyson
said you couldn't remember. But you must remember!"

He came closer still, his threatening eyes upon her. And as he did so,
the dark presence of ruin and death, of things damning and irrevo