“Madame?” He jumped to his feet, his hand bearing heavily upon the back of his chair.  “Madame?” he repeated.

The great courage which had brought her here ebbed, and her hand stole toward the latch.  Neither of them realized how long a time they faced each other, a wonder in his eyes, an unfamiliar glory in hers.

“Monsieur . . .” she began; but her throat contracted and grew hot.  She could not bring another word to her lips.  The glisten in her eyes dimmed for a moment, but the color on her cheeks deepened and spread to her throat and brow.

“Madame,” he said, speaking first to disembarrass her, “here is something which belongs to you.”

The outstretched arm and paper fascinated her.  She did not move.

“It is yours, Madame.  It is the list of the cabal.  I was going to bring it to you in the morning.”  He forced a smile to his lips to reassure her.

Ah, those treacherous knees of hers!  Where was her courage?  Alas, for that magnanimous resolve!  Whither had it flown?  But as the firelight bathed his pale face and emphasized the grey hair and the red scar above one of his temples, both her courage and resolve came back.  She walked slowly over to him and took the paper, approached the fire, sank, and eagerly scanned the parchment.  She gave a cry of exultation, end thrust the evil thing into the flames.

“Burn!” she cried, clasping her hands.  “Burn, burn, burn!  And let all the inglorious past burn with you!  Burn!”

It was almost hysterical; it was almost childish; but he thought he had never seen a more exquisite picture.  And she was so soon to pass out of his life as completely as though she had never entered it.  From somewhere she had obtained a blue velvet gown with slashed sleeves and flaring wrists, of a fashion easily fifty years old.  On her hair sat a small round cap of the same material, with a rim of amber beads.  Was it possible that, save for these past six hours, he had been this woman’s companion for more than five weeks; that she had accepted each new discomfort and peril without complaint; that he had guarded her night after night in the lonely forests?  A slender thread of golden flame encircled her throat, and disappeared below the ruffle of lace.  Doubtless it was a locket; and perchance poor Victor’s face lay close to that warmly beating heart.  What evil star shone over him that day when he crushed her likeness beneath his foot without looking at it?  He sighed.  As the last black ash whirled up the gaping chimney she regained her height.  She faced him.

“Four men have died because of that,” waving her hand toward the fire; “and one had a great soul.”

“Ah, Madame, not an hour passes that I do not envy his sleep.”

“Monsieur, before this evil tide swept over us, I sent you a letter.  Have you read it?” All her color was gone now, back to her fluttering heart.

“A letter?  You sent me a letter?” He did not recall the episode at once.