the Sussex Downs the tragic story of that
night was told. For Thresk as he listened and watched, its terrors lived
again in the eyes and the hushed voice of Stella Ballantyne, the dark
walls seemed to fall back and dissolve. The moonlit plain of far-away
Chitipur stretched away in front of him to the dim hill where the old
silent palaces crumbled; and midway between them and the green
signal-lights of the railway the encampment blazed like the clustered
lights of a small town. But Thresk learnt more than the facts. The
springs of conduct were disclosed to him; the woman revealed herself,
dark places were made light; and he bowed himself beneath a new burden
of remorse.

CHAPTER XXVI

TWO STRANGERS

"You came back to the tent," she began, "and ever since then you have
misunderstood what you saw. For this is the truth: I was going to
kill myself."

Thresk was startled as he had not expected to be; and a great wave of
relief swept over him and uplifted his soul. Here was the simplest
explanation, yet it had never occurred to him. Always he had been
besieged by the vision of Stella standing quietly by the table,
deliberately preparing her rifle for use, always he had linked up that
vision with the death of Stephen Ballantyne in a dreadful connection. He
did not doubt that she spoke the truth now. Looking at her and noticing
the anguish of her face, he could not doubt it. So definite a
premeditation as he had imagined there had not been, and relief carried
him to pity.

"So it had come to that?" he said.

"Yes," replied Stella. "And you had your share in bringing it to
that--you who sit in judgment."

"I!" Thresk exclaimed.

"Yes, you who sit in judgment. I am not alone. No, I am not alone. A
crime was committed? Then you must shoulder your portion of the blame."

Thresk asked himself in vain what was his share. He had done a cowardly
thing years ago a few miles from this spot. He had never ceased to
reproach himself for the cowardice. But that it had lived and worked like
some secret malady until in the end it had made him an all-unconscious
accomplice in that midnight tragedy, a sharer in its guilt, if guilt
there were--here again was news for him. But the knowledge which her
first words had given to him, that all these years he had never got the
truth of her, kept him humble now. He ceased to be judge. He became pupil
and as pupil he answered her.

"I am ready to shoulder it."

He was seated on a c