“Yes, off the coast of Madagascar.  But it was never known beyond doubt.  The vessel was wrecked and it was said all hands but two sailors were lost.”

“Exactly.  But my old friend Meneely writes me from Zanzibar telling me of a man who got into trouble with Arabs in the interior—­there was a woman in it—­and was shot but not killed.  Meneely brought him to the coast, and put him into a hospital, and said he was going to ship him to England right away, though he thinks he can’t live.  Meneely further remarks that the man is a bounder.  And his name is Fairfax Detlor.  Was that her husband’s name?”

Hagar had had a blow.  Everything seemed to come at once—­happiness and defeat all in a moment.  There was grim irony in it.  “Yes, that was the name,” he said.  “Will you leave the telling to me?”

“That’s what I came for.  You’ll do it as it ought to be done; I couldn’t.”

“All right, Baron.”

Hagar leaned against the mantel, outwardly unmoved, save for a numb kind of expression.  Baron came awkwardly to him and spoke with a stumbling kind of friendliness.  “Hagar, I wish the Arabs had got him, so help me!”

“For God’s sake think of what you are saying.”

“Of course it doesn’t sound right to you, and it wouldn’t sound right from you; but I’m a rowdy colonial and I’m damned if I take it back!—­and I like you, Hagar!” and, turning, he hurried out of the house.

Mrs. Detlor had not staid at the hotel long; but, as soon as she had recovered, went out for a walk.  She made her way to the moor.  She wandered about for a half hour or so and at last came to a quiet place where she had been accustomed to sit.  As she neared it she saw pieces of an envelope lying on the ground.  Something in the writing caught her eye.  She stopped, picked up the pieces and put them together.  “Oh,” she said with misery in her voice, “What does it all mean?  Letters everywhere, like the writing on the wall!”

She recognized the writing as that of Mark Telford.  His initials were in the corner.  The envelope was addressed to John Earl Gladney at Trinity hospital, New York.  She saw a strange tangle of events.  John Earl Gladney was the name of the man who had married an actress called Ida Folger, and Ida Folger was the mother of Mark Telford’s child!  She had seen the mother in London; she had also seen the child with the Margraves, who did not know her origin, but who had taken her once when her mother was ill and had afterward educated her with their own daughter.  What had Ida Folger to do with George Hagar, the man who (it was a joy and yet an agony to her) was more to her than she dared to think?  Was this woman for the second time to play a part—­and what kind of part—­in her life?  What was Mark Telford to John Gladney?  The thing was not pleasant to consider.  The lines were crossing and recrossing.  Trouble must occur somewhere.  She sat down quiet and cold.  No one could have guessed her mind.  She was disciplining herself for shocks.  She fought back everything but her courage.  She had always had that, but it was easier to exercise it when she lived her life alone—­with an empty heart.  Now something had come into her life—­but she dared not think of it!