“Oh, sir!” he broke out, “I do not think there is anything more terrible than to witness in one we love a sorrow we are unable to reach!” Here he paused, and I saw that the sweat stood out upon his brow, and that his hand was tight clenched as he drew it across his temples.  “At last, sir,” he went on, speaking once more in a low, repressed tone, “returning home one day, I found her—­gone.”

“Gone?” said I.

“Gone, sir.”

“And she left no trace—­no letter?”

“No, she left no letter, sir, but I did find something—­a something that had rolled into a corner of the room.”

“And what was that?”

“This, sir!” As he spoke, his burning eyes never leaving mine, he thrust a hand into his bosom—­his left hand, for his right was where it had been all along, hidden in his pocket—­and held out to me a gold seal such as gentlemen wear at their fobs.

“Ah!” I exclaimed.

“Take it!” said the man, thrusting it towards me; “look at it!” Obediently I took the trinket from him, and, examining it as well as I might, saw that a letter was engraved upon it, one of those ornamental initials surrounded by rococo scrolls and flourishes.  “What letter does it bear?” asked the man in a strangled voice.

“It looks very like the letter ‘Y,’” I answered

“The letter ’Y’!” cried the man, and then, with a gesture sudden and fierce, he snatched the seal from me, and, thrusting it back into his bosom, laughed strangely.

“Why do you laugh?” said I.

“To be sure,” said he harshly, “the light might be better, and yet—­well! well! my story is nearly done.  I lived on in my lonely house from day to day, and month to month, hoping and waiting for her to come back to me.  And one day she did come back to me—­just about this hour it was, sir, and on just such another evening; and that same night—­she died.”

“Good God!” I exclaimed.  “Poor fellow!” And, leaning forward, I laid my hand upon his knee, but, at my touch, he drew back so quickly, and with a look so evil, that I was startled.

“Hands off!” said he, and so sat staring at me with his smouldering eyes.

“Are you mad?” said I, and sprang to my feet.

“Not yet,” he answered, and once again he passed his hand up, and over his face and brow; “no, not yet, sir.”  Here he rose, and stood facing me, and I noticed that one hand was still hidden in his pocket, and, thereafter, while I listened to him, I kept my eyes directed thither.  “That night—­before she—­died, sir,” he continued, “she told me the name of the man who had destroyed her, and killed my soul; and I have been searching for him ever since—­east, and west, and north, and south.  Now, sir, here is my question:  If I should ever meet that man face to face, as I now see you, should I not be justified in—­killing him?”

For a moment I stood with bent head, yet conscious all the while of the burning eyes that scanned my face, then: