Apparently they were not very pleasant ones.  He walked round the room, which was reeking of patchouli or some such compound, well mixed with the odour of stale cigar smoke, looking absently at the gee-gar ornaments.  On the mantelpiece were some photographs, and among them, to his disgust, he saw one of himself taken many years ago.  With something as near an oath as he ever indulged in, he seized it, and setting fire to it over the gas, waited till the flames began to scorch his fingers, and then flung it, still burning, into the grate.  Then he looked at himself in the glass in the mantelpiece—­the room was full of mirrors—­and laughed bitterly at the incongruity of his gentlemanlike, respectable, and even refined appearance, in that vulgar, gaudy, vicious-looking room.

Suddenly he bethought him of the letter in his wife’s handwriting which he had stolen from the pocket of Edward Cossey’s coat.  He drew it out, and throwing the tea gown and the interminable glove off the sofa, sat down and began to read it.  It was, as he had expected, a love letter, a wildly passionate love letter, breathing language which in some places almost touched the beauty of poetry, vows of undying affection that were throughout redeemed from vulgarity and even from silliness by their utter earnestness and self-abandonment.  Had the letter been one written under happier circumstances and innocent of offence against morality, it would have been a beautiful letter, for passion at its highest has always a wild beauty of its own.

He read it through and then carefully folded it and restored it to his pocket.  “The woman has a heart,” he said to himself, “no one can doubt it.  And yet I could never touch it, though God knows however much I wronged her I loved her, yes, and love her now.  Well, it is a good bit of evidence, if ever I dare to use it.  It is a game of bluff between me and her, and I expect that in the end the boldest player will win.”

He rose from the sofa—­the atmosphere of the place stifled him, and going to the window threw it open and stepped out on to the balcony.  It was a lovely moonlight night, though chilly, and for London the street was a quiet one.

Taking a chair he sat down there upon the balcony and began to think.  His heart was softened by misery and his mind fell into a tender groove.  He thought of his long-dead mother, whom he had dearly loved, and of how he used to say his prayers to her, and of how she sang hymns to him on Sunday evenings.  Her death had seemed to choke all the beauty out of his being at the time, and yet now he thanked heaven that she was dead.  And then he thought of the accursed woman who had been his ruin, and of how she had entered into his life and corrupted and destroyed him.  Next there rose up before him a vision of Belle, Belle as he had first seen her, a maid of seventeen, the only child of that drunken old village doctor, now also long since dead, and of how the sight of