erence to me.
I wanted you. I'll never in all my life cease to want you. Who
you are or what you are is nothing to me."

[Illustration: "I'll never in all my life cease to want you."]

"But what is the right thing to do now?" he resumed, after a time.
"Parole? Hostage? I don't need to tell you I'm the prisoner now.
My future, my character, are absolutely in your hands. The fact
that I have insulted a woman can be proved. It is with you, what
revenge you will take. As a lawyer, I point out to you that the
courts are open. You easily can obtain redress there against
Warville Dunwody. And your relatives or friends will of course
hold me accountable."

"Then you fear me?"

"No. What comes, comes. I am afraid of no one in the world but my
own self. I fear only the dread of facing life--of looking about
me here, in my own home, and not seeing, not hearing you.

"But you haven't told me what you wish," he added; raising his eyes
at last; "nor what you intend to do. Tell me, when will your
lawyers call on me?"

"Never at all," she answered at last.

"What do you mean?" he demanded. "To set me quit so easily? Oh,
no."

"Never fear. You shall pay me ransom, and heavily."

"Ransom? Parole? Hostages? How do you mean?"

"What ransom you pay me must be out of yourself, out of your own
character. I shall exact it a hundredfold, in shame, in regret, of
you. Do you hold any of that ready to pay your debtor?"

He shook his head. "No, I'll never regret. But you don't know me,
do you? My fortune is adequate."

"So is mine," she rejoined. "I could perhaps buy some of your
property, if it were for sale. But I want more than money of you."

"Who are you?" demanded he suddenly, reverting to the old puzzle
regarding her.

A sadness came upon her averted face. "Only a bit of flotsam on
the human wave. How small we all are, any of us! And there's so
much to be done!"

Half stumbling, he shifted his position, leaning his weight against
the tall pillar of the gallery. He could see her plainly. In the
light from the hall half her features were now thrown into
Rembrandt lighting. The roll of dark hair framed her face,
highbred, aristocratic, yet wholly human and sweet. Gravity sat on
all her features; a woman for thought, said they. A woman for
dreams; so declared the fineness of brow and temple and cheek and
chin, the hand--which, lifted now for an instant, lingered at her
throat. But a woman