“My darling!” he kissed her fondly, and went on:  “I saw you leave your room by the window and come down the garden path.  I had felt that you would come.  I was not surprised that you did.  I had expected it.  I followed you silently, saw you kneel by the grave of your parents, heard you call out upon your father for pity.  O, how I loved and pitied you, Margie—­but my tongue was tied—­I had no right to speak—­but I did kiss your hand.  Did you know it Margie?”

“Yes.”

“You recognized me, then?  I meant you should.  After that I hurried away.  I was afraid to trust myself near you longer, lest I might be tempted to what I might repent.  I fled away from the place and knew nothing of the fearful deed done there until the papers announced it the next day.”

“And I suspected you of the crime!  O, Archer!  Archer! how could I ever have been so blind?  How can you ever forgive me?”

“I want forgiveness, Margie.  I doubted you.  I thought you were false to me, and had fled with Castrani.  That unfortunate glove confirmed you, I suppose.  I dropped it in my haste to escape without your observation, and afterward I expected to hear of it in connection with the finding of Linmere’s body.  I never knew what became of it until my wife displayed it, that day when she taunted me with my crime.  Poor Alexandrine!  She had the misfortune to love me, and after your renunciation and your departure from New York—­in those days when I deemed you false as fair—­I offered her my hand.  I thought perhaps she might be happier as my wife, and I felt that I owed her something for her devoted love.  I tried to do my duty by her, but a man never can do that by his wife, unless he loves her.”

“You acted for what you thought was best, Archer.”

“I did.  Heaven knows I did.  She died in coming to me to ask my forgiveness for the taunting words she had spoken at our last parting.  I was cruel.  I went away from her in pride and anger, and left behind me no means by which she could communicate with me.  I deserved to suffer, and I have.”

“And I also, Archer.”

“My poor Margie!  Do you know, dear, that it was the knowledge that you wanted me which was sending me home again?  A month ago I saw Louis Castrani in Paris.  He told me everything.  He was delicate enough about it, darling; you need not blush for fear he might have told me you were grieving for me; but he made me understand that my future might not be so dark as I had begun to regard it.  He read to me the dying confession of Arabel Vere, and made clear many things regarding which I had previously been in the dark.  Is all peace between us, Margie?”

“All is peace, Archer.  And God is very good.”

“He is.  I thank Him for it.  And now I want to ask one thing more.  I am not quite satisfied.”

“Well?”

“Perhaps you will think it ill-timed—­now that we are surrounded by strangers, and our very lives perhaps in peril—­but I cannot wait.  I have spent precious moments enough in waiting.  It has been very long, Margie, since I heard you say you loved me, and I want to hear the words again.”