ay more, but no words
escaped him. A minute later he had left the house.

I had barely entered my room that night, when Edgecumbe knocked at the
door which led from his apartment to mine. 'May I come in?' he asked.

I opened the door, and scarcely noticing me he staggered to an
arm-chair, and threw himself into it.

'I want to tell you something,' he said.

'Well, what is it?'

But he did not speak. He sat staring into vacancy.

'Come, old man,' I said, after a lapse of many minutes, 'what is it?'

'If I weren't sure there was another life,' was his reply, 'I--I should
go mad.'

'Go mad! Why?'

'Because this life is such a mockery, such a ghastly, hollow mockery!'

'Don't be silly. Why is it a mockery?'

'I don't suppose you can understand,' he said, 'not even you. Oh, I am
a fool!'

'How has that fact so suddenly dawned on you?' I asked with a laugh.

'I was mad to come here, mad to see her. Why, just think,--here am I,
without name, without home, without--without anything! But how did _I_
know! Am _I_ to blame? I couldn't help falling in love with her.'

'Falling in love with her! With whom?'

'You must know; you must have seen. It is driving me mad, Luscombe! I
would,--I would,--oh, God knows what I would do to get her! But think
of it! Think of the ghastly mockery of it! There she is, young, fair,
beautiful, a fit mate for the best in the world, and I--think of what I
am! Besides, there's that man,--I know him,--I know him, Luscombe.'

CHAPTER XVIII

A TRAGIC HAPPENING

I must confess I was staggered. The thought of Paul Edgecumbe falling
in love had never entered my mind. I do not know why it should have
been so, but so it was. He had seemed so far removed from all thoughts
of the tender passion, and had been so indifferent to the society of
women, that to think of him falling in love at first sight seemed pure
madness. But I did not doubt his words; the intensity of his voice,
the look in his eyes, the tremor of his lips, all told their tale. Of
course it was madness, but the fact was patent enough.

'You can't be serious,' I said, although I knew I was speaking
foolishly.

'Serious! It's a matter of life or death with me. Besides, there's
that man. I know him, I say,--I know him.'

'Of course you know him,' I replied. 'You saved his life, and pretty
nearly got killed yourself in doing it.'

'I wish I had been. But no, I don't; He must never have her,