“This is the second case I have had in this house, and I am sure that directly or indirectly it was connected with that woman.  She will go on like this leaving a track behind her and then some day there will be really a corpse.  This young fellow might have been it.”

“In this case, Doctor,” said another voice, “one can’t blame the woman very much.  I assure you she made a very determined fight.”

“What do you mean?  That she didn’t want to. . . "

“Yes.  A very good fight.  I heard all about it.  It is easy to blame her, but, as she asked me despairingly, could she go through life veiled from head to foot or go out of it altogether into a convent?  No, she isn’t guilty.  She is simply—­what she is.”

“And what’s that?”

“Very much of a woman.  Perhaps a little more at the mercy of contradictory impulses than other women.  But that’s not her fault.  I really think she has been very honest.”

The voices sank suddenly to a still lower murmur and presently the shape of the man went out of the room.  Monsieur George heard distinctly the door open and shut.  Then he spoke for the first time, discovering, with a particular pleasure, that it was quite easy to speak.  He was even under the impression that he had shouted: 

“Who is here?”

From the shadow of the room (he recognized at once the characteristic outlines of the bulky shape) Mills advanced to the side of the bed.  Dona Rita had telegraphed to him on the day of the duel and the man of books, leaving his retreat, had come as fast as boats and trains could carry him South.  For, as he said later to Monsieur George, he had become fully awake to his part of responsibility.  And he added:  “It was not of you alone that I was thinking.”  But the very first question that Monsieur George put to him was: 

“How long is it since I saw you last?”

“Something like ten months,” answered Mills’ kindly voice.

“Ah!  Is Therese outside the door?  She stood there all night, you know.”

“Yes, I heard of it.  She is hundreds of miles away now.”

“Well, then, ask Rita to come in.”

“I can’t do that, my dear boy,” said Mills with affectionate gentleness.  He hesitated a moment.  “Dona Rita went away yesterday,” he said softly.

“Went away?  Why?” asked Monsieur George.

“Because, I am thankful to say, your life is no longer in danger.  And I have told you that she is gone because, strange as it may seem, I believe you can stand this news better now than later when you get stronger.”