Vanbrugh and Mr. Brown lost no time, for the former knew exactly what to do. Within three-quarters of an hour they had been to headquarters in Mulberry Street, had ascertained that there was ground for the report that John Darche had returned, that the police were making haste to secure him and that he had paused the night without much attempt at concealment, in a sailors' lodging-house on the east side. They found the place without difficulty, and were informed that the man Darche had gone out in the morning, leaving his few effects in charge of the lodging-house keeper. The house was watched by detectives. Vanbrugh asked Brown to stay at the Mulberry Street Station until dinner-time and then to bring him news at Mrs. Darche's in Lexington Avenue, whither he at once returned, fearing some trouble and anxious to give timely warning.

He knew enough of criminals to suspect that Darche, finding himself in New York very much against his will and doubtless without money, would in all likelihood attempt to obtain money from his wife to aid him in making his escape. He would probably not waste time in writing, but would appear in person at the house, just before dinner when he would know that Marion must be at home, and he would have little or no difficulty in forcing his way into her presence.

This was what he foresaw in case the man proved to be really John Darche. The police were satisfied that there was no mistake, and that a fortunate accident had thrown the escaped criminal into their hands. Nevertheless, Vanbrugh had doubts on the subject. The coincidence of name was possible, if not probable, and no one had given him any description which would have applied any more to John Darche than to any other man of his age and approximately of his complexion. The lodging-house keeper was evidently under the impression that the man, whoever he was, must be a sailor; but any one familiar with sea-faring men knows that, apart from some peculiarity of dress there is often very little to distinguish them from landsmen, beyond the fact that no seaman ever wears spectacles, and that most sailors have bronzed faces. But a landsman is easily imposed upon by a "guernsey," a jack-knife, a plug of tobacco, and a peculiar taste in swearing.

When Brett had left Marion Darche so abruptly, she had gone to her morning-room and shut herself up to think, with no especial result, except that she was very unhappy in the process. She would not even see Dolly Maylands, who came in soon afterwards, but sent her word to have tea in the library with Cousin Annie. She herself, she said, would come down later. She begged Dolly to stay to dinner, just as she was.

Dolly was busy as usual, but she was anxious about her friend and about Brett, and her own life seemed very perplexing. Men were very odd creatures, she thought. Why did Brett hesitate to ask Marion to marry him, since he was in love with her, unless he were sure that Marion loved Vanbrugh, or at least liked him better? And if Vanbrugh were not himself in love with Marion, an idea which Dolly scouted with wrath, why did he not offer himself to her, Dolly Maylands? Considering that the world was a spheroid, thought Dolly, it was a very crooked stick of a world, after all.

"All alone, Dolly?" asked Mrs. Willoughby, entering the library.

"Yes," answered Dolly. "I am all alone, and I am tired, and I want some tea, and Marion is lying down, and everything is perfectly horrid. Do sit down and let us have a cosy talk, all by ourselves."

"Why will people scramble through life at such a rate?" And Mrs. Willoughby installed her gray self in an easy-chair. "I have told Marion fifty times since last summer that she will break down unless she gives herself a rest."

"My dear Mrs. Willoughby," said Dolly. "Marion is a very sensible woman and manages her existence on scientific principles. She really gets much more rest than you or I, not to mention the fact—well, I suppose I ought not to say it."

"What? Why not?"

"Well, I was thinking that since poor Mr. Darche was drowned, life must have seemed like one long rest to Marion."

"Oh Dolly, how unkind!" exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby, and then paused a moment before she continued. "But I suppose there is some truth in it. What is that proverb? 'De—de—mort—'"

"'De mortuis nil nisi—something like bones,'" answered Dolly with a laugh.

"What? What is that?"

"Oh nothing. It only means that everybody should say the nicest possible things when people are dead. That was what you meant. But I should think the living would appreciate them more."

"Yes, yes," assented Mrs. Willoughby vaguely. "I daresay he would."

"He? Who is he?" asked Dolly with affected surprise.

"Oh I do not mean anything, my dear. I hardly think that Marion will marry again."

"I suppose they are admirably suited to each other?"

"Who?"

"Who? Why Marion and Mr. Vanbrugh. Who else?" Dolly watched Mrs. Willoughby's face.

"Oh, I was not thinking of that. I meant Mr.—hm—" She interrupted herself in fear of indiscretion. "Your dress will be complete now with the lace, will it not, Dolly?"

"Oh yes," answered Dolly in a careless tone. "It was just like Mr. Vanbrugh, was it not, to take all that trouble to find the very thing I wanted?"

"A man will take a great deal of trouble, my dear, when he wants to please somebody he is fond of."

"Yes—but me," suggested Dolly, just to see what Cousin Annie thought.

"Why not you? Should you like some tea, Dolly?"

"Why not me? I suppose because I am Marion's friend," Dolly answered.

"Oh yes, if you put it in that way—"

Mrs. Willoughby was interrupted by the appearance of Stubbs bringing in the tea.

"Is Mrs. Darche at home if any one calls, Stubbs?" she inquired.

"No, madam. Mrs. Darche is upstairs and not at home." He paused a moment to see whether Mrs. Willoughby meant to say anything more, and then left the room.

"Dear Mrs. Willoughby, I do so want to ask you a question," said Dolly, beginning to pour the tea.

"What is it, my dear?"

"One lump or two?" inquired Dolly with hesitation.

"Is that all?" asked Mrs. Willoughby with a slight laugh.

"Not quite," answered Dolly. "Do you take milk?"

"Please, and one lump. What is the question, child?"

"No," said Dolly, laughing herself. "It was foolish and inquisitive, and all sorts of horrid things. I think I had better not ask it."

"About Marion and Mr. Brett?"

"Why?" Dolly asked, looking up quickly, and then hesitating. "Is there anything? I mean—yes, that is what I meant to ask."

"Well, my dear," answered Mrs. Willoughby in a confidential tone, "to tell the truth I am glad to talk to somebody about it, for it is on my mind, and you know that Marion does not like to answer questions."

"Yes, I know. Well, so you think there is something between them?"

"My dear, of course there is," said Mrs. Willoughby without hesitation. "And I am quite sure that something has happened lately. In fact, I believe they are engaged to be married."

"Do you really? And—and—where does Mr. Vanbrugh come in?"

"Mr. Vanbrugh? I am sure I do not know. Perhaps he will be Harry Brett's best man."

"If they could see themselves as others see them," reflected Dolly under her breath, before she answered the remark. "They would make a handsome couple, would they not? But you are quite mistaken, dear Mrs. Willoughby—oh, you are quite—quite mistaken." She looked down and sipped her tea.

"How do you know that?" asked Mrs. Willoughby. "How can you be so sure? Do you not see how they go on together, always sitting in corners and talking in undertones?"

"Do you not see how Marion spoils Mr. Vanbrugh, and gets his special brand of cigarettes for him, and always asks him to dinner to fill up a place, and altogether behaves like an idiot about him? You must be blind if you do not see that. Let me give you another cup of tea?"

"Thanks, I have not finished," said Cousin Annie. "Of course, my dear child, no two people ever look at things from the same point of view, but I was thinking—"

Stubbs opened the door again.

"Mr. Vanbrugh," he announced.

"He knew you were here, my dear," said Mrs. Willoughby in a whisper. "He has come to see you."

"Will you be good-natured and forgive my spoiling your tea?" asked Vanbrugh, as he entered the room.

"We will try," said Dolly.

"Sit down," said Mrs. Willoughby, "and have some with us."

"Thanks," answered Vanbrugh. "I am even ruder than I seem, for I am in a hurry. Do you think I could see Mrs. Darche? For a minute?"

"I daresay," replied Cousin Annie, doubtfully.

"Of course you can. She is upstairs and not at home." Dolly laughed.

"So Stubbs told me," said Vanbrugh, "and I came in to ask you to help me. I am very glad I have seen you first. I know it is late and I will not keep you a moment. There is something that I must say. I have just been at the club for a moment and Brown came in and four or five others. There is certainly an impression that John Darche has really come back again."

"Good heavens!" cried Mrs. Willoughby, thoroughly startled.

"Oh, how awful!" exclaimed Dolly in real distress. "But you were all saying after luncheon that it was impossible."

"I know," said Vanbrugh. "I know we were. But it looks otherwise now. There was so much talk about it that I proposed to Brown to try and find the man. We have been down town since then, to Mulberry Street. There certainly is a man knocking about under the name of John Darche, who landed from an Italian vessel last night."

"Have you seen him?" asked Dolly. "Oh, poor Marion!"

"Dreadful, dreadful!" repeated Mrs. Willoughby, staring at Vanbrugh.

"No," answered the latter in reply to Dolly's question, "we have not seen him, but we shall have him this evening."

"Here?" exclaimed Mrs. Willoughby, looking round nervously.

"Here in this house?"

"Yes—or at least, under our hand," said Vanbrugh. "Brown is waiting for information at the Mulberry Street Station."

"To bring him here to-night?" asked Cousin Annie, with increasing anxiety.

"No, to keep him from coming."

"And you have come to warn Marion?" inquired Dolly.

"Yes, in a way," answered Vanbrugh. "But not to tell her, of course. I want her to give strict orders about any odd-looking persons who may present themselves. I mean to tell her that I am afraid some reporter may try to get in, and that the man at the door must be very careful."

"I will go to her," said Mrs. Willoughby, rising. "Mr. Vanbrugh—if he comes, if it is really he, he cannot be turned away from what was his own house."

"No, but he shall be stopped at the door, and I will go out and talk to him and persuade him to escape, or to come and see me in the morning, if he is mad enough to stay."

"Yes, that is sensible," answered Cousin Annie. "Shall I speak to my niece myself, or shall I make her come down?"

Vanbrugh hesitated a moment and looked at Dolly, who answered by an almost imperceptible nod.

"I think," said Vanbrugh, "that to put her to any inconvenience would make the matter look more serious than we wish her to think it is. Do you think you could explain, Mrs. Willoughby? Give her the idea that the newspaper man who was here to-day may come back—or some other person, or two or three. Anything of that sort."

"I will do my best," answered Mrs. Willoughby. "You will wait until I come back, will you not?"

"Of course," replied Vanbrugh, as she left the room.

"Do you think it is really true?" asked Dolly.

"I do not know what to think. Putting all the facts we have together, there is certainly a possibility."

"I am very, very sorry," said Dolly, after a short pause.

"Poor Mrs. Darche!" exclaimed Vanbrugh. "After all these months of freedom she has had, it will break her heart."

"I was not thinking of Marion," answered Dolly.

"Of whom, then?" asked Vanbrugh.

"Of—of—some one else."

"Yes, I know."

"Yes," repeated Dolly with marked sympathy. "Will you not let me make you a nice cup of tea, Mr. Vanbrugh?"

"No, thanks."

"Will you not light a cigarette?" asked Dolly. "Here are some of your own."

"No, thanks," answered Vanbrugh absently. "I have just smoked."

"Do sit down and warm yourself," said Dolly, pushing a chair towards the fire.

"Well—thanks—I suppose Mrs. Willoughby will be gone some minutes. Have you thought of what might happen if Darche were alive?" he asked, reverting to the subject uppermost in his mind.

"I do not like to think of it. But I cannot help thinking of it," she answered almost inaudibly. "I know that I cannot, and I hate myself and everybody."

"We may have to think of it seriously in three or four hours," said Vanbrugh. "Brown will bring me word. He will dine with me, and I will be within reach in case anything happens."

"What a head you have!" exclaimed Dolly. "You ought to be a general."

"It is simple enough, it seems to me, as simple as going back to stop an express train when there has been an accident on the line."

"Yes, but it is always the one particular man who has more sense than the rest who thinks of stopping the express train."

"I suppose so," answered Vanbrugh indifferently. "The man who has his eyes open. It is odd, is it not, that the happiness of so many people should be at stake on one day?"

"So many?"

"Well, three at least."

"Three? Are there not four?" asked Dolly, with a smile.

"There is Stubbs, of course," said Vanbrugh thoughtfully; "not to mention a lot of people who would not be particularly glad to see Darche back, on general principles. Well, I am sorry for them all, but I was not thinking of them especially."

"Whom were you thinking of?"

"Some one not concerned in the matter—some one, I cannot say nearest; think of something that rhymes with it. You are fond of hymns and that sort of thing."

"Dearest?" suggested Dolly.

"Yes, 'dearest'; that rhymes, does it not?"

"Yes, that rhymes," assented Dolly, with a little sigh. "Whom were you thinking of?" she asked.

"A person."

"What an answer! And what an expression! I suppose the name of the person is a profound secret?"

"It has been a secret for some time," said Vanbrugh.

"Oh!—then you have a faithful disposition?" asked Dolly with a laugh.

"I hope so," answered Vanbrugh, smiling.

"Any other virtues?"

"Lots," he laughed in his turn.

"I am so glad."

"Why?"

"Virtue makes people so nice and safe," said Dolly, "and helps them to bear misfortune, and to do almost everything except enjoy themselves."

"What an appalling code for a Sunday school teacher!"

"Do not laugh. I have had an offer."

"Of marriage?" asked Vanbrugh, looking at her.

"No. If I had, I would not tell you. I have been offered twenty-five dollars a month to teach at a Sunday school—a visitor, who did not know me, you see, and wished to engage me."

"And you refused?"

"Yes. Foolish of me, was it not? Twenty-five dollars—just think!"

"It is a lot of money," laughed Vanbrugh.

"Several pairs of gloves," said Dolly gravely. "But I refused. You know the proverb—'be virtuous and you will be happy, but you will not have a good time.'"

"And you mean to have a good time. I have always been meaning to—but it is rather dull, all by myself. I am not young enough to be gay alone—nor old enough to enjoy being sour."

"There is a remedy—get married!" Dolly smiled, looked grave, and then smiled again.

"That is almost easier done than said, if one does not mind whom one marries."

"And you do mind, I suppose?"

"Yes—I am foolish enough to care," answered Vanbrugh, glancing at her.

"To care for some particular person—is that rude, or indiscreet, or horrid of me?"

"Very! But I will forgive you on one condition."

"I never accept conditions."

"Unconditional surrender? Is that it?"

"Of course," Dolly answered without hesitation.

"I surrender unconditionally—at discretion."

"Oh—very well. Then I will be nice and ask what the condition was for the sake of which you kindly proposed to forgive me for what I did not do. Come—what is it?"

"You asked if I cared for one particular person," said Vanbrugh, gently.

"Yes. Do you?" He could hardly distinguish the words.

"I will tell you, if you will answer the same question."

"You answer first."

"Yes. That is the answer." His hand stole out towards hers.

"Yes—that is the other answer."

"Do two positives make a negative?" asked Vanbrugh, as their hands met.

"No—not in mathematics," laughed Dolly, a little awkwardly, and withdrawing her fingers from his. "Two negatives make a positive, sometimes."

"A positive 'no'?" asked Vanbrugh, incredulously.

"Sometimes."

"But we were both saying 'yes.'"

"We are both saying 'yes,'" repeated Dolly slowly.

"Could we not go a step farther?"

"How?" Dolly started a little and looked at him. "I do not understand—I thought—"

"What did you think?"

"I do not know what to think." She hesitated.

"Will you not let me help you to decide?" For the first time in their acquaintance, Vanbrugh's voice grew tender.

"I—I am almost afraid—"

"Afraid of me?"

"Of you? Oh no, you do not frighten me at all—but I am just a little—" again Dolly hesitated, then as though making a great effort she tried to speak severely. "Mr. Vanbrugh, you must not play with me!"

"Miss Maylands, you have played with me a long time," answered Vanbrugh softly.

"I?"

"Yes."

"Have I? I—I did not mean to," she added thoughtfully.

"Perhaps we have both played in earnest," suggested Vanbrugh.

"But you play with so many people—"

"With whom, for instance?" asked Vanbrugh.

"With Marion, for instance," said Dolly.

"With Mrs. Darche?" Vanbrugh's voice expressed genuine astonishment. "What an extraordinary idea! As though Brett were not my best friend!"

"What of that?"

"Oh, do not pretend that you do not understand—especially to-day, when they are both so unhappy—you will do something that will hurt them if you are not careful."

"I wonder—" Dolly did not complete the sentence, but turned away as though leaving it to him.

"I know. So you must not talk of my flirting with Mrs. Darche. It is not just to her nor kind to me—and you do not mean to be unkind to me, do you?"

"To you—of all people!" Her voice was very gentle.

"Of all people in the world, dear?"

"Yes—I think so—of all people." She nodded slowly, and then looked up and let her eyes meet his.

"You think so—you are not quite sure?" asked Vanbrugh, although there was no longer any doubt.

"I am always sure of what I think." Dolly smiled, still looking at him.

"And this is not play any more? This is quite earnest?"

"Quite—quite—" While she was speaking his face was suddenly close to hers and his lips touched her cheek. "Oh!—I did not mean—"

"I did," said Vanbrugh emphatically.

"I see you did," answered Dolly, blushing scarlet.

"Will you not see again—" He leaned towards her again.

"Oh, no! Not on any account!" she cried, pushing him away and laughing. "Besides"—the handle of the door turned as she was speaking—"there are people coming. Oh—I can feel it!" she whispered, rising precipitately with her hands to her cheek. "But I am so happy!" she added, with one more look as she broke from him.

Dolly whispered the last words as Mrs. Willoughby re-entered the room, and Vanbrugh rose to his feet, hardly realising that the crisis of his life had been reached with a laugh and a kiss, but quite as happy as Dolly herself in his thoroughly undemonstrative way. Both were, perhaps, a little ashamed of themselves when they remembered Marion Darche's trouble, and contrasted her anxiety with their own visions of a sunny future; and both felt all at once that they were out of place; if they could not be together without a third person, they wished to be alone.

"I do not really believe that anything will happen," said Vanbrugh, speaking to Mrs. Willoughby. "I do not believe either, that this man is Mrs. Darche's husband, for there is every reason to be sure that John Darche was actually drowned. But in case anything should happen, pray send for me at once. I shall be at home and shall not go out this evening. Good-night, Miss Maylands."

"I am going, too," said Dolly, rather suddenly. "Do you think," she added, turning to Mrs. Willoughby, "that it would be very dreadful if Mr. Vanbrugh took me as far as the corner?"

"What is there dreadful in it?" asked Mrs. Willoughby, who was old-fashioned and remembered the times when young men used to take young girls to parties, and walked home with them unchaperoned.

"Very well, then, will you take me, Mr. Vanbrugh? My maid has not come yet. I only want to go to Mrs. Trehearne's and tell her it is all right about that lace."

"I shall be delighted," answered Vanbrugh, his handsome face lighting up in a way Dolly had never seen.

They had not been gone more than five minutes when Brett rang at the door again and asked for Mrs. Darche. Stubbs looked at him for a moment, and then said that he would inquire. Brett waited in the library, by the deserted tea table, for Cousin Annie had betaken herself to her own room as soon as Dolly and Vanbrugh left, and he wondered who had been there. It was some time before Marion appeared.

"I am glad to see you again," she said, quietly, and holding out her hand. "You went away so suddenly—as though you were anxious about something."

"I am."

"And you have made me anxious, too. You were telling me that a great and final misfortune is hanging over my head. You do not know me. You do not understand me. You do not see that I would much rather know what it is, and face it, than live in terror of it and trust altogether to you to keep it from me."

"But do you not know after all these years, that you can trust me? Do you not trust me now?"

"Yes," Marion answered after a pause. "As a man, my dear friend, I trust you. You do all that a man can do. I can even give you credit, perhaps, for being able to do more than you or any other man can do. But there is more. There is something yet. Be as faithful as you may, as honest as God has made you, and as brave and as strong as you are—you cannot control fate. You do not believe in fate? I do. Well, call it that you please. Circumstances arise which none of us, not the strongest of us, can govern. Whatever this secret is, it means a fact, it means that there is something, somewhere, which might come to my knowledge, which might make me unutterably miserable, which you some day may not be able to keep from me. Does it not?"

"Yes, it does," said Brett, slowly. "I cannot deny that. You might, you may, come to know of it without my telling you."

"Then tell me now," said Marion earnestly. "Is it not far better and far more natural that this, whatever it may be, should come to me directly from you, instead of through some stranger, unawares, when I am least prepared for it, when I may break down under the shock of it? Do you not think that you, my best friend, could make it easier for me to hear, if any one could?"

"If any one could, yes," answered Brett in a low voice.

"And if no one can, then you at least can make it less cruel. Let me know now when I am prepared for it by all you have said—prepared to hear the most dreadful news that I can possibly imagine, something far more dreadful, I am sure, than anything really could be. Let me hear of it from you of all other men."

"No, no, do not ask me!" He turned from her as though he had finally made up his mind. "Of all men, I should be the last to hurt you. And there is no certainty, perhaps not even a probability, that you should ever know it if I do not tell you."

"Ah, but there is!" she cried, insisting. "You have said so. You told me that a moment ago. No—you must tell me. I will not let you go until you do. I will not leave anything unsaid that I can say—that a woman can say—"

"No, no!"

"Harry, I must know. I will know." She laid her hand upon his arm.

"For heaven's sake!" exclaimed Brett in the utmost distress.

"Harry! You loved me once—" Her voice vibrated audibly.

"Once!" Brett started violently, and turned if possible, paler.

"You made me think so."

"Marion, Marion, don't!"

"I will. Do you remember, Harry, long, long ago when we were almost boy and girl, how you promised, faithfully, sacredly, that if ever I needed you, that if ever I asked your help—"

"And you married John Darche instead of me," said Brett, interrupting her.

"Yes, and I married John Darche," answered Marion, gravely.

"Because you loved him and not me."

"Because I thought,—no, I will not go back to that. There is a nearer time than that in the past, a day we both remember, a day that I am ashamed of, and yet—well you have not forgotten it either. That morning—not so many months ago. It was on that day—that day when my husband was arrested. It was in this very room. You told me that you loved me, and I—you know what I did. It was bad. It was wrong. Call it what you please, but it was the truth. I let you know that I loved you as well as you loved me and better, for I had more to lose. John was alive then. He is dead now—long dead. If I was ashamed then, I am not ashamed now—for I have nothing to be ashamed of. I am showing whether I trust you or not, whether I believe in you, whether I am willing to stake my woman's pride on your man's faithfulness. I loved you then, and I showed you that I did. Harry! I love you now—and I tell you so without a blush."

Brett trembled as though in bodily fear, glanced at her and turned away.

"Great God!" he exclaimed under his breath.

"And you—Harry—you still—Harry—look at me! What is it?"

With wide and loving eyes she looked at him, expecting every instant that he would turn to her. But he did not move. Then suddenly, with a low cry, as though she were mortally hurt, she fell back upon the sofa.

"Oh, my God! you do not love me!"

Her voice was broken and weak, but he heard the words. He turned at last, looked at her, and then knelt down at her side.

"Marion, Marion! dear!" he whispered lovingly, again and again. But she pushed him away. Then he rose to his feet and sat beside her, looking down into her face. "Yes," he said gravely, "you must know my secret now."

"Yes, I know your secret now, your miserable secret." She turned her face from him against the cushion.

"No, you do not know it," he said. "You do not even guess it. But I must tell you now. Take care. Be strong, be brave. It will hurt you."

While he was speaking Mrs. Darche rose from the sofa and her expression slowly changed as she realised that he had something grave to tell her. She rose slowly, steadying herself, but not taking her eyes from his face.

"Tell me, please. I am ready."

"John Darche is alive, and I have known it almost from the first."

It seemed to Brett that nothing he had ever done in his life had been half so hard. Marion stared at him for a moment, and then once more sank slowly into her seat and covered her face.

"Do you understand me now?" he asked after a long pause. "Do you see now why I have fought so hard against telling you this thing?"

"It is better so," she answered in a low and indistinct tone. "It was better that I should know it now." Then she was silent for a long time. "And is that all you have to tell me after all that I have told you?" she asked at last, as though in a dream.

"All? All, dear?" Suddenly his resolution broke down. "You know it is not all. I love you—that is all, indeed—and more than I have the right to say or you to hear."

"A right! What is right? Where is right now?"

"Where you are, dear." He was holding both her hands in his.

Then all at once a light came into her face.

"And we can make the rest right, too! Are there no laws? Is there no justice? If this man who has ruined both our lives is not dead—ah! but he is! I know he is. What proof have you? How can you stand there and tell me that I am still bound and tied to a man whose very name is a stain on me, whose mere memory is a disgrace."

"How do I know?" repeated Brett. "It is simple enough. He has written to me. I have his letters. Do you care to see them? Do you know what he says? What he repeats whenever he writes? He began a few days after we heard of his supposed death. I know the letter by heart. 'My dear Brett—I am not dead at all. I know that you love my wife, but I do not propose that you should be happy at my expense. If you try to marry her I shall be at the wedding to forbid the banns.'"

"He wrote that? He wrote that in his own hand?" The strange emotions that were chasing each other in her heart found quick expression in her face.

"And he has written it often. Would it have made you happier to know it during all these months? Or could I have looked you in the face as an honourable man and told you that I loved you when I alone knew that your husband was alive?" He had drawn back from her now and stood leaning against the mantelpiece with folded arms.

"Oh, I see it all! I see it all now!" she said. "How brave you have been! How good! And now he is coming back to find some new way of hurting us! Oh it is too much! I thought I had borne all. But you were right. There was more to bear."

"Do you know?" Brett began after a moment's pause. "In spite of this story that was in the papers to-day I find it hard to believe that he has really come back. He was quite capable of starting the story himself from a distance for the sake of giving you pain, but he knows as well as we do that if he comes here he comes to serve his time in prison."

Marion seemed to be trying to think over the situation.

"Stop!" she said at last. "You know that there was a woman, too, though we never spoke of her, you and I. But every one knew it. People used to pity me for that before they knew the rest. Do you not think it possible that she may have written those letters to you?"

"Oh, no! I know John Darche's handwriting. I have good cause to know it."

"Yes, I suppose you are right," answered Marion thoughtfully. "Did any one man ever accumulate so much wickedness in a lifetime? He was not satisfied with one crime. And yet he was not the only bad man in the world. What does a girl know of the man she is to marry? She sees him day after day, of course, but she only sees the best side of him. She knows nothing of what he does, nor of what he thinks when he is not with her, but she imagines it all, in her own way, with no facts to guide her. Then comes marriage. How could I know?"

"Indeed, it would have been hard for any girl to guess what sort of man John Darche was."

"Please do not talk about that."

"And how do you know that I am any better man than John Darche?" asked Brett, suddenly. "What do you know of my comings and goings when I am not here, or how I spend my time? How do you know that I am not bound by some disgraceful tie, as he was? I have been in all sorts of places since we said good-bye on that winter's evening. Do you remember? I have wandered and worked, and done ever so many things since then. How do you know that there is not some woman in my life whom I cannot get rid of?"

He had not changed his position while speaking. When he paused for her answer she went up to him, laying her hands upon his shoulders and looking into his face.

"Harry! is there any other?"

"No, dear." But his eyes answered before he spoke.

"I knew it. You have answered your own question. That is all."

"Thank you." As she drew back he caught her hand and held it, and his words came fast and passionately. "No. That is not all. That is not half. That is not one-thousandth part of what I ought to say. I know it. Thank you? My whole life is not enough to thank you with. All the words I ever heard or know are not enough—the best of words mean so little. And they never do come to me when I want them. But those little words of yours are more to me than all the world beside. I do thank you with all my strength, with all my heart, with all my soul, and I will live for you with all three. Why should I say it? You know it all, dear, much better than it can be said, for you believe in me. But it is good to say—I wish it could have been half as good to hear."

She had listened to each word and looked for each passing expression while he spoke. She looked one moment longer after he had finished, and then turned quietly away.

"It is good to hear—if you only knew how good!" she said softly. "And words are not always empty. When they come from the heart, as ours do, they bring up gold with them—and things better than gold."