And he stared wildly, his brain swimming,—­his pulses beating hammer-strokes—­was it—­could it be possible?  The artist in brown trousers and white shirt straightened himself, and instinctively sought to assume a less tramp-like appearance, looking at his former friend meanwhile with a half-glad, half-doubtful air.

“Well, well, Dick!” he said, after a moment’s pause—­“Don’t take it badly that you find me pursuing my profession in this peripatetic style!  It’s a nice life—­better than being a pavement artist in Pimlico!  You mustn’t be afraid!  I’m not going to claim acquaintance with you before the public eye—­you, a peer of the realm, Dick!  No, no!  I won’t shame you...”

“Shame me!” Blythe sprang forward and caught his hand in a close warm grip.  “Never say that, Pierce!  You know me better!  Thank God you are here—­alive!—­thank God I have met you!—­”

He stopped, too overcome to say another word, and wrung the hand he held with unconscious fervour, tears springing to his eyes.  The two looked full at each other, and Armitage smiled a little confusedly.

“Why, Dick!” he began,—­then turning his head quickly he glanced up at the clear blue sky to hide and to master his own emotion—­“I believe we feel like a couple of sentimental undergrads still, Dick in spite of age and infirmities!”

He laughed forcedly, while Blythe, at last releasing his hand, took him by the arm, regardless of the curious observation of some of the hotel guests who were strolling about the garden and terraces.

“Come with me, Pierce,” he said, in hurried nervous accents—­“I have news for you—­such news as you cannot guess or imagine.  Put away all those drawings and come inside the hotel—­to my room—­” “What?  In this guise?” and Armitage shook his head—­“My dear fellow, your enthusiasm is running away with you!  Besides—­there is some one else to consider—­”

“Some one else?  Whom do you mean?” demanded Blythe with visible impatience.

Armitage hesitated.

“Your wife,” he said, at last.

Blythe looked him steadily in the eyes.

“My wife is dead.”

“Dead!” Armitage loosened his arm from the other’s hold, and stood inert as though he had received a numbing blow.  “Dead!  When did she die?”

In a few words Blythe told him.

Armitage heard in silence.  Mechanically he began to collect his drawings and put them in a portfolio.  His face was pale under its sun-browned tint,—­his expression almost tragic.  Lord Blythe watched him for a moment, moved by strong heart-beats of affection and compassion.

“Pierce,” he then said, in a low tone—­“I know everything!”

Armitage turned on him sharply.

“You—­you know?—­What?—­How?—­”

“She—­Maude—­told me all,” said Blythe, gently—­“And I think—­your wrong to her—­was not so blameworthy as her wrong to you!  But I have something to tell you of one whose wrong is greater than hers or yours—­one who is Innocent!”