She looked towards Wingrave.  He was sitting upon the garden seat, and his face was absolutely expressionless.  He spoke to her, and his cold, precise tone betrayed not the slightest sign of any emotion.

“Aynesworth,” he remarked, “is going to tell you some interesting facts about myself.  Please listen attentively as afterwards you will be called upon to make a somewhat important decision.”

She looked at him a little wistfully and sighed.  There was no trace any longer of her companion of the last few weeks.  It was the stern and gloomy stranger of her earlier recollections who sat there with folded arms.

“Is it really necessary?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” Aynesworth answered hurriedly.  “It won’t take long, but there are things which you must know.”

“Very well,” she answered, “I am listening.”

Aynesworth inclined his head towards the place where Wingrave sat.

“I will admit,” he said, “that the man there, whom I have served for the last four years and more, never deceived me as to his real character and intentions.  He had been badly treated by a woman, and he told me plainly that he entered into life again at war with his fellows.  Where he could see an opportunity of doing evil, he meant to do it; where he could bring misery and suffering upon anyone with whom he came into contact, he meant to grasp the opportunity.  I listened to him, but I never believed.  I told myself that it would be interesting to watch his life, and to see the gradual, inevitable humanizing of the man.  So I entered his service, and have remained in it until today.”

He turned more directly towards Juliet.  She was listening breathlessly to every word.

“Juliet,” he said, “he has kept his word.  I have been by his side, and I speak of the things I know.  He has sought no one’s friendship who has not suffered for it, there is not a man or woman living who owes him the acknowledgment of a single act of kindness.  I have seen him deliberately scheme to bring about the ruin of a harmless little woman.  I have seen him exact his pound of flesh, even at the cost of ruin, from a boy.  I tell you, Juliet, of my own knowledge, that he has neither heart nor conscience, and that he glories in the evil that his hand finds to do.  Even you must know something of his reputation—­have heard something of his doings, under the name he is best known by in London—­Mr. Wingrave, millionaire.”

She started back as though in terror.  Then she turned to Wingrave, who sat stonily silent.

“It isn’t true,” she cried.  “You are not—­that man?”

He raised his eyes and looked at her.  It seemed to her that there was something almost satanic in the smile which alone disturbed the serenity of his face.

“Certainly I am,” he answered; “when I returned from America, it suited me to change my identity.  You must not doubt anything that Mr. Aynesworth says.  I can assure you that he is a most truthful and conscientious young man.  I shall be able to give him a testimonial with a perfectly clear conscience.”