“A debt?” I asked.

“Worse.”

“What then, an entanglement; the old story, petticoats?”

“Precisely.  To-day I ought to be anywhere but here; the old boy is over, or will be, in a few hours.”

The whole story was breaking upon me; Bertram saw it, and my manner, become icy to him, was closing the sources upon me.  I resolved to get the mystery cleared up.  I resumed my former manner with him, ordered some Burgundy, and entreated him to proceed.

“You remember,” he said, “your story about the girl you met travelling with her husband on the Boulogne boat—­Mrs. Daker.”  His voice fell as he pronounced the name.  “I deceived you, my dear Q. M., when I affected unconcern and ignorance.”

“I know it, Bertram,” was my answer.  “But that is unimportant:  go on.”

“I met Mrs. Daker at her hotel, very soon after she arrived in Paris.  She talked about you; and I happened to say that I knew you.  We were friends at once.”

“More than friends.”

“I see,” Bertram continued, much relieved at finding his revelation forestalled in its chief episodes; “I see there is not much to tell you.  You are pretty well posted up.  I cannot see why you should look so savage; Mrs. Daker is no relation of yours.”

“No!” I shouted, for I could not hold my passion—­“had she been——­”

“You would have the right to call me to account.  As it is,” Bertram added, rising, “I decline to tell you more, and I shall wish you good-day.”

After all Bertram was right; I had no claim to urge, no wrong to redress.  Besides, by my hastiness, I was letting the thread slip through my fingers.

“Sit down, Bertram; you are the touchiest man alive.  It is no concern of mine, but I have seen more than you imagine—­I have seen Daker; I have been with Sharp.”

Bertram grasped my arm.

“Tell me all, then; I must know all.  You don’t know how I have suffered, my dear Q. M. Tell me everything.”

“First let me ask you, Bertram, have you been an honourable man to Mrs. Daker?”

“Explain yourself.”

“Where is she?  Her uncle has broken his heart!”

“All I need say is, that she is with me, and that it is I who have sacrificed almost my honour in keeping her with me, after——­”

I understood the case completely now.

“You found the prey at the right moment, Bertram.  Poor forsaken woman!  You took it; you lost it; it falls into your hands again—­broken unto death.”

“Unto death!” Bertram echoed.

I related to him my adventure in Boulogne; and when I came to Baker’s end, and his bigamy, Bertram exclaimed—­

“The villain!  My dear Q. M., I loved—­I do love her; she might have been my wife.  The villain!”

“You say she is with you, Bertram.  Where?  Can I see her?”

“You cannot, she’s very ill So ill, I doubt——­”

“And you are here, Bertram?”