“No, I didn’t meet him, I am happy to say,” Newman answered, after a pause.

“They are in the country,” Mrs. Tristram went on; “at—­what is the name of the place?—­Fleurieres.  They returned there at the time you left Paris and have been spending the year in extreme seclusion.  The little marquise must enjoy it; I expect to hear that she has eloped with her daughter’s music-master!”

Newman was looking at the light wood-fire; but he listened to this with extreme interest.  At last he spoke:  “I mean never to mention the name of those people again, and I don’t want to hear anything more about them.”  And then he took out his pocket-book and drew forth a scrap of paper.  He looked at it an instant, then got up and stood by the fire.  “I am going to burn them up,” he said.  “I am glad to have you as a witness.  There they go!” And he tossed the paper into the flame.

Mrs. Tristram sat with her embroidery needle suspended.  “What is that paper?” she asked.

Newman leaning against the fire-place, stretched his arms and drew a longer breath than usual.  Then after a moment, “I can tell you now,” he said.  “It was a paper containing a secret of the Bellegardes—­something which would damn them if it were known.”

Mrs. Tristram dropped her embroidery with a reproachful moan.  “Ah, why didn’t you show it to me?”

“I thought of showing it to you—­I thought of showing it to every one.  I thought of paying my debt to the Bellegardes that way.  So I told them, and I frightened them.  They have been staying in the country as you tell me, to keep out of the explosion.  But I have given it up.”

Mrs. Tristram began to take slow stitches again.  “Have you quite given it up?”

“Oh yes.”

“Is it very bad, this secret?”

“Yes, very bad.”

“For myself,” said Mrs. Tristram, “I am sorry you have given it up.  I should have liked immensely to see your paper.  They have wronged me too, you know, as your sponsor and guarantee, and it would have served for my revenge as well.  How did you come into possession of your secret?”

“It’s a long story.  But honestly, at any rate.”

“And they knew you were master of it?”

“Oh, I told them.”

“Dear me, how interesting!” cried Mrs. Tristram.  “And you humbled them at your feet?”

Newman was silent a moment.  “No, not at all.  They pretended not to care—­not to be afraid.  But I know they did care—­they were afraid.”

“Are you very sure?”

Newman stared a moment.  “Yes, I’m sure.”

Mrs. Tristram resumed her slow stitches.  “They defied you, eh?”

“Yes,” said Newman, “it was about that.”

“You tried by the threat of exposure to make them retract?” Mrs. Tristram pursued.

“Yes, but they wouldn’t.  I gave them their choice, and they chose to take their chance of bluffing off the charge and convicting me of fraud.  But they were frightened,” Newman added, “and I have had all the vengeance I want.”