ith you! Burn!"

It was almost hysterical; it was almost childish; but he thought he had
never seen a more exquisite picture. And she was so soon to pass out
of his life as completely as though she had never entered it. From
somewhere she had obtained a blue velvet gown with slashed sleeves and
flaring wrists, of a fashion easily fifty years old. On her hair sat a
small round cap of the same material, with a rim of amber beads. Was
it possible that, save for these past six hours, he had been this
woman's companion for more than five weeks; that she had accepted each
new discomfort and peril without complaint; that he had guarded her
night after night in the lonely forests? A slender thread of golden
flame encircled her throat, and disappeared below the ruffle of lace.
Doubtless it was a locket; and perchance poor Victor's face lay close
to that warmly beating heart. What evil star shone over him that day
when he crushed her likeness beneath his foot without looking at it?
He sighed. As the last black ash whirled up the gaping chimney she
regained her height. She faced him.

"Four men have died because of that," waving her hand toward the fire;
"and one had a great soul."

"Ah, Madame, not an hour passes that I do not envy his sleep."

"Monsieur, before this evil tide swept over us, I sent you a letter.
Have you read it?" All her color was gone now, back to her fluttering
heart.

"A letter? You sent me a letter?" He did not recall the episode at
once.

"Yes." She was twisting her handkerchief.

It was this simple act which brightened his memory. He went over to
his table. Her gaze, full of trouble and shame, followed him. Yes,
there lay the letter; a film of dust covered it. He remembered.

"It was an answer," he said, smiling sadly. He did not quite
understand. "It was an answer to my . . ."

"Give it to me, Monsieur; do not read it!" she begged, one hand
pressing her heart, the other extended toward him appealingly.

"Not read it?" Her very agitation told him that there was something in
the letter worth reading. He calmly tore it open and read the biting
words, the scorn and contempt which she had penned that memorable day.
The letter added nothing to the bitterness of his cup, only he was
surprised at the quality of her wrath on that day. But what surprised
him more was when she snatched it from his hands, rushed to the fire,
and cast the letter into it. She watched it writhe and cur