His arms were stretched out on the table; his head was laid on them, despair confessed itself in his attitude; grief spoke in the deep sobbing breaths that shook him.  Love and compassion restored Sydney’s courage; she advanced to raise him in her arms—­and stopped once more.  The book on the table caught her eye.  He was still unconscious of her presence; she ventured to open it.  She read the inscription—­looked at him—­looked back at the writing—­and knew the truth at last.

The rigor of the torture that she suffered paralyzed all outward expression of pain.  Quietly she put the book back on the table.  Quietly she touched him, and called him by his name.

He started and looked up; he made an attempt to speak to her in his customary tone.  “I didn’t hear you come in,” he said.

She pointed to the book, without the slightest change in her face or her manner.

“I have read the inscription to your wife,” she answered; “I have seen you while you thought you were alone; the mercy which has so long kept the truth from me is mercy wasted now.  Your bonds are broken, Herbert.  You are a free man.”

He affected not to have understood her.  She let him try to persuade her of it, and made no reply.  He declared, honestly declared, that what she had said distressed him.  She listened in submissive silence.  He took her hand, and kissed it.  She let him kiss it, and let him drop it at her side.  She frightened him; he began to fear for her reason.  There was silence—­long, horrid, hopeless silence.

She had left the door of the room open.  One of the servants of the hotel appeared outside in the passage.  He spoke to some person behind him.  “Perhaps the book has been left in here,” he suggested.  A gentle voice answered:  “I hope the lady and gentleman will excuse me, if I ask leave to look for my book.”  She stepped into the room to make her apologies.

Herbert Linley and Sydney Westerfield looked at the woman whom they had outraged.  The woman whom they had outraged paused, and looked back at them.

The hotel servant was surprised at their not speaking to each other.  He was a stupid man; he thought the gentlefolks were strangely unlike gentlefolks in general; they seemed not to know what to say.  Herbert happened to be standing nearest to him; he felt that it would be civil to the gentleman to offer a word of explanation.

“The lady had these rooms, sir.  She has come back from the station to look for a book that has been left behind.”

Herbert signed to him to go.  As the man turned to obey, he drew back.  Sydney had moved to the door before him, to leave the room.  Herbert refused to permit it.  “Stay here,” he said to her gently; “this room is yours.”

Sydney hesitated.  Herbert addressed her again.  He pointed to his divorced wife.  “You see how that lady is looking at you,” he said; “I beg that you will not submit to insult from anybody.”