t for
him.

And so he stood waiting before the portrait; and closely, critically, he
studied it by the morning light.

It was the face which for five years now he had carried graven on his
heart. She was the one woman to him--the woman of his dream. Throughout
his wanderings he had cherished the memory of her--a secret and
priceless possession to which he clung day and night, waking and
sleeping. He had made no effort to find her during those years, but
silently, almost in spite of himself, he had kept her in his heart, had
called her to him in his dreams, yearning to her across the
ever-widening gulf, hungering dumbly for the voice he had never heard.

He knew that he was no favourite with women. All his life his reserve
had been a barrier that none had ever sought to pass till this
woman--the woman who should have been his fate--had been drifted to him
through life's stress and tumult and had laid her hand with perfect
confidence in his. And now it was laid upon him to betray that
confidence. He no longer had the right to keep her secret. He had
protected her once, and it had been as a hidden, sacred bond invisibly
linking them together. But it could do so no longer. The time had come
to wrest that precious link apart.

Sharply he turned from the picture. The dark eyes tortured him. They
seemed to be pleading with him, entreating him. There came a sudden
clatter without, the tramp of heavy feet, the jingle of spurs. The door
was flung noisily back, and Major Coningsby strode in.

"Hullo! Very good of you to look me up so soon. Sorry I wasn't in to
receive you. Haven't you had a drink yet?"

He tossed his riding-whip down upon the table, and busied himself with
the glasses.

Carey drew near; his face was stern.

"I have something to say to you," he said, "before we drink, if you have
no objection."

His voice was quiet and very even, but Coningsby looked up with a quick
frown.

"Confound you, Carey! What are you pulling a long face about this time
of the morning? Better have a drink; it'll make you feel more sociable."

He spoke with sharp irritation. The hand that held the spirit-decanter
was not over-steady. Carey watched him--coldly critical.

"That portrait over the mantelpiece," he said; "your wife, I think you
told me?"

Coningsby swore a deep oath.

"I may have told you so. I don't often mention the subject. She is
dead."

"I beg your pardon; I am forced to mention it." Carey's tone was
del