his companion.

"Tell me the story," he said. "You need not hurry over it. You need not
trouble to--spare me. Only let it be quite complete--once for all."

Steinmetz winced. He knew the expression of the face that was looking
out of the window.

"This man has hated me all his life," he said. "It began as such things
usually do between men--about a woman. It was years ago. I got the
better of him, and the good God got the better of me. She died, and De
Chauxville forgot her. I--have not forgotten her. But I have tried to do
so. It is a slow process, and I have made very little progress; but all
that is my affair and beside the question. I merely mention it to show
you that De Chauxville had a grudge against me--"

"This is no time for mistaken charity," interrupted Paul. "Do not try to
screen any body. I shall see through it."

There was a little pause. Never had that silent room been so noiseless.

"In after-life," Steinmetz went on, "it was our fate to be at variance
several times. Our mutual dislike has had no opportunity of diminishing.
It seems that, before you married, De Chauxville was pleased to consider
himself in love with Mrs. Sydney Bamborough. Whether he had any right to
think himself ill-used, I do not know. Such matters are usually known to
two persons only, and imperfectly by them. It would appear that the
wound to his vanity was serious. It developed into a thirst for revenge.
He looked about for some means to do you harm. He communicated with your
enemies, and allied himself to such men as Vassili of Paris. He followed
us to Petersburg, and then he had a stroke of good fortune. He found
out--who betrayed the Charity League!"

Paul turned slowly round. In his eyes there burned a dull, hungering
fire. Men have seen such a look in the eyes of a beast of prey, driven,
famished, cornered at last, and at last face to face with its foe.

"Ah! He knows that!" he said slowly.

"Yes, God help us! he knows that."

"And who was it?"

Steinmetz moved uneasily from one foot to the other.

"It was a woman," he said.

"A woman?"

"A woman--you know," said Steinmetz slowly.

"Good God! Catrina?"

"No, not Catrina."

"Then who?" cried Paul hoarsely. His hands fell heavily on the table.

"Your wife!"

Paul knew before the words were spoken.

He turned again, and stood looking out of the window with his hands
thrust into his pockets. He stood there for whole minutes in an awful
stillness. The cl