A vein of sincerity mingled with the banter in his voice, and Bunny was aware of a curious quality of reverence, of something sacred in a waste place.

It affected him oddly.  Convinced though he was that in one point at least Saltash had sought to deceive him it yet influenced him very strongly in Saltash’s favour.  Against his judgment, against his will even, he saw him as a friend.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he said, speaking slowly, his eyes upon the swarthy, baffling countenance, “that you have never even tried to know where she came from—­what she is?”

Saltash made a quick gesture as of remonstrance. “Mon ami, the last I have always known.  The first I have never needed to know.”

“Then,” Bunny spoke with difficulty, but his look never wavered, “tell me—­as before God—­tell me what you believe her to be!”

“What I know her to be,” corrected Saltash, “I will tell you—­certainly.  She is a child who has looked into hell, but she is still—­a child.”

“What do you mean?” questioned Bunny.

Saltash’s eyes, one black, one grey, suddenly flashed a direct challenge into his own.  “I mean,” he said, “that the flame has scorched her, but it has never actually touched her.”

“You know that?” Bunny’s voice was hoarse.  There was torture in his eyes.  “Man—­for God’s sake—­the truth!”

“It is the truth,” Saltash said.

“How do you know it?  You’ve no proof.  How can you be sure?” He could not help the anguish of his voice.  The words fell harsh and strained.

“How do I know it?” Saltash echoed the words sharply.  “What proof?  Bunny, you fool, do you know so little of the world—­of women—­as that?  What proof do you need?  Just—­look into her eyes!”

A queer note of passion sounded in his own voice, and it told Bunny very clearly that he was grappling with the naked truth at last.  It arrested him in a moment.  He suddenly found that he could go no further.  There was no need.

Impulsively, with an inarticulate word of apology, he thrust out his hand.  Saltash’s came to meet it in a swift, hard grip.

“Enough?” he asked, with that odd, smiling grimace of his that revealed so little.

And, “Yes, enough!” Bunny said, looking him straight in the face.

They parted almost without words a few minutes later.  There was no more to be said.

CHAPTER XIV

THE LAST CARD

Saltash dined alone that night.  He was in a restless mood and preoccupied, scarcely noticing what was put before him, pushing away the wine untasted.  In the end he rose from the table almost with a gesture of disgust.

“I’m going to smoke on the ramparts,” he said to the decorous butler who waited upon him.  “If anyone should call to see me, let them wait in the music-room!”

“Very good, my lord!  And where would you like to take coffee?” enquired the man sedately.