Mrs. Davenport rested slightly against the back of her chair, and resumed:

"'Mrs. Davenport,' said Fahey, 'what I have done for you was nothing. It was really not done for you at all. It was done for Mr. Davenport, not you. The thieves did not want to steal you. They wanted to steal Mr. Davenport's money. If I may presume to ask you for that rose, I shall consider myself more than repaid for what I have done.'

"I gave him the rose. He bowed, and said: 'Yes, they were stupid, mercenary fools. They thought a few pounds of more value than anything else in the world. I am not a rich man, and I care very little for money itself. I care more for what it may bring with it. I would not care to be the richest man in the world. I have in my time, Mrs. Davenport, been the humble means of forwarding Mr. Davenport's plans for making money. He is a rich man. He is rich in more ways than money.' Here he raised the rose to his lips and kissed it. I stood amazed. I could not speak or move."

"Are you sure the man was serious, and that he meant it fully?--or was it only a piece of elaborate gallantry?" asked Blake, in perplexity.

"There can be no doubt whatever of his absolute sincerity. Listen. I merely smiled, as if I did not catch his drift, and moved as though I would resume my walk towards home. He lifted his hat, and, standing uncovered, with his hat in one hand and the rose I had given him in the other, said:

"'I would not give this rose for all Mr. Davenport's money, and I know more about his money than any other man living. Mr. Davenport and I have been close friends for a long time. It is my nature to be loyal. I have been loyal to him. If I liked I could do him injury--irreparable injury. If I cared, I could ruin him utterly. But it is my nature to be loyal. Do you credit me?'

"For a few seconds I did not answer. I believed he was crazy, and I thought that I must soothe him in some way and get off. I had become apprehensive, so I said: 'I am perfectly sure of your loyalty to Mr. Davenport. I have always heard my husband speak of you in the highest terms, I hope we may soon have the pleasure of seeing you again at the House.'

"'Not yet,' he said--'do not leave me yet. I want to say a few more words to you. It is easy to listen. Listen, pray. I would not, as I said before, give that rose for all his money. If I chose to speak, things might be different with him. By fair means or by foul, I will not say which, I could make his wealth melt like snow in the sun. But I have no caring, no need for wealth. I shall not hurt him if you will make me two promises. Will you make the two promises I ask?'

"By this time I felt fully persuaded I was in the presence of a madman. I looked around and could see no one but the man before me. We were not a hundred yards from the edge of the cliff. I no longer thought him physically weak; his encounter with the thieves had settled that point. If he were mad, the promise would count for nothing. There could be no doubt he was insane. I resolved to try him: 'How is it possible for me to make two promises to you until I know what they are?'

"'Your husband trusts me--you may trust me. Do you promise?'

"'First let me know what the promises are.'

"'That you will say nothing of what I have said to you to Mr. Davenport, and that, if ever I have it in my power to do you another service, and do it, you will give me another rose.'

"'Yes; in both cases,' I answered. 'You may rest satisfied.'

"I got away then and was very glad to escape. There was no occasion to speak to any one about this meeting with Fahey on the downs, unless indeed I firmly believed he was mad; and now that I had time to recall all he had said, and review all his actions, I began seriously to question my assumption as to his insanity. I took the first opportunity of asking my husband if there was anything remarkable about Fahey. Mr. Davenport seemed a good deal put out by the question, and asked me what I meant. I said I thought Fahey was odd at times. My husband said Fahey was all right, and did not seem disposed to go on any further with the conversation.

"I did not meet Fahey again for a long time--I mean months. He then seemed quite collected; but before wishing good-bye, he said significantly: 'A man may disappear at any moment on a coast like this, and yet may not be dead. Now, suppose I were to disappear suddenly on this coast, you would think I had died, and that Mr. Davenport no longer ran any risk from my being talkative, or you any chance of being called upon for that other rose. I am not enamoured of this coast. I consider it dreary and inhospitable, and it would not at all surprise me if one day I packed up and fled far away, and stopped away until almost all memory of me was lost. Do you think, Mrs. Davenport, that if, after such an absence, I were to come back, you would recognise me?'

"I answered that I was sure of it, and got away from him as soon as I could. Again I spoke to Mr. Davenport about Fahey's sanity. My husband did not seem to care about discussing the subject, and so I let the matter drop. Afterwards, when Fahey jumped into the Puffing Hole in order to avoid the police, I thought to myself that when he talked about disappearing from the coast he was much nearer the truth than he had any notion of.

"All this occurred many years ago, but it made a great impression on my mind, and I have not forgotten a tittle of it. The words Fahey spoke, and the way he looked, are as plain to me now as if it all happened only yesterday. For a long time after Fahey had disappeared, I believed his death at the Black Rock was nothing more than a pure coincidence. Now and then, at long intervals, Mr. Davenport would refer to the matter, but always in tones of anxiety and doubt. I do not know why I got the notion into my head, but gradually it found its way there, until at last I became quite sure Fahey was not dead. On more than one occasion when I had ventured to suggest such an idea to Mr. Davenport's mind, he showed great emotion, and, after a few struggles, either directly dismissed or changed the subject.

"If Fahey had been right about his power of disappearing from that coast without dying, why should I refuse to believe that Fahey could injure--nay, ruin, my husband, if he were to appear and make certain statements of matters within his own knowledge? What these matters were I could not guess. Since I saw you last I have got good reasons to feel sure my husband had no proper right to the money he possessed, and that this man Fahey was aware of the facts of the case."

"How did you find all this out, Marion?" asked Blake, looking across at her with freshly awakened interest.

"I found papers of my husband's."

"Will you tell me how you believe he came by the money?"

"No. And you must say nothing of this conversation to any living being."

"Trust me, I will not."

"The difficulties now are, Thomas Blake, that I believe my husband did not come fairly by his fortune, that Michael Fahey is still alive, and that he had a hand in the death of my husband."

Blake knit his brows, rose, and recommenced walking up and down the room.

"Mr. Jerry O'Brien, who travelled over from London with me, told me after we left Euston that he himself and Phelan, the boatman of Kilcash, had seen the ghost or body of Fahey on the cliffs just above the Black Rock."

"It may have been a delusion."

"Yes, it may; but the chances are ten thousand to one against it. He told me, too, that a friend of his had seen the same figure, clad in the same clothes it wore ten or a dozen years ago. The last-named phenomenon I cannot account for. But if you can believe that a man who jumped into the Puffing Hole years ago is still alive, all other beliefs in this case are easy. Now, Thomas Blake, I have spoken more fully to you than I have ever spoken to any other man. I want you to advise and help me.

"How?" asked Blake, stopping in his walk and looking straight into her white, fixed, expressionless face.

"By finding out Fahey and discovering whence my husband got his money. Then, if I may return it without disgracing his name or exposing him, I will, and if not----"

"Well, Marion, if not?"

"I shall put an end to my knowledge and myself, and so keep his grave quiet and silent for him."

"Marion, this is sheer madness."

"So much the better. If I do wrong in an access of insanity, no moral blame attaches to me or my act. Will you help me? Once upon a time I could have counted on your aid."

"At that time you held out the promise of a glorious reward. Do you hold it out still, Marion?"

"No. That thought must be put to rest for ever. You may think it monstrous that such being my mind, I should deliberately seek you and ask for your help. But I have no future, and you are all that is left to me of the past----"

"Marion, Marion, for Heaven's sake don't say it is too late!" he cried, passionately, and advanced a step towards her.

She retired two steps, and made an imperative gesture, bidding him stand still.

"Stay where you are and listen to me. To quote again from the poem you quoted awhile ago, 'My youth,' she said, 'was blighted with a curse.'"

"And," he said, pointing to himself, "if we alter the text slightly, we find 'This traitor was the cause.' Is not that what you mean, Marion? Do not spare me; I am meet for vengeance."

"The present one is not a case for vengeance. But if you like you may in this matter expiate the past."

"And when my expiation is complete, in what relation shall you and I stand to one another?"

"In the same relation as before we met. You will be just to me, and help me in this matter, Thomas Blake. Remember that my life has not been very joyous."

"But, Marion," he urged, softening his voice, and leaning towards her, "if I am to take what you say at its full value----"

"I mean it all quite literally."

"Then my expiation would assume the form of leading you to the tomb instead of the altar."

She drew back, and said:

"Yes, put it that way if you will. At one time I believed your hand was guiding me up to the altar, beyond which lay love and life, and all manner of good and bright things. We never reached the altar. But something happened, and there was a dull, dead pause in life, like the winter sleep of a lizard or the trance of the Sleeping Beauty, and then I awoke, and, to my horror, found the altar had been changed into a tomb, and the Fairy Prince into Death. There was no time for love. I had slept through the period of love. I had no power to hate, but I had the power and the will to die. You will help me?"

"Not to die, Marion. I will help you to solve the mystery of this Fahey, and the relations between him and Mr. Davenport, and then when all has been cleared up, you may----"

He held out his hand pleadingly.

"Yes," she said, coldly, firmly, "when all has been cleared up, I may say--good-bye."