e home to me. The face of the woman I had married was fair as the
morn; her figure as perfect as that of a Grecian statue; her voice low
and sweet; but the one thing which animates every charm--the mind--was
missing. Memory, except for the events of the moment before, she had
none. Of all emotion she was incapable. She was sweet and docile, but
her whole existence was a negative one. Such was Pauline, my wife.

When I was convinced of the truth, I placed her in charge of Priscilla
and hastened to Geneva to seek an explanation from Ceneri. I should
never have found the doctor had not chance thrown me in the way of the
very Italian we had met outside the cathedral of San Giovanni. Knowing
that he knew Ceneri, I spoke to him. At first he refused to have
anything to do with me, but when I mentioned Pauline's name, he asked me
what concern I had with her.

"She is my wife," I replied.

"Your wife!" he shouted. "You lie!"

I rose furiously, and bade him choose his words more carefully. After a
few moments he apologised, asking me whether Ceneri knew of our
marriage. "Traditore," I heard him whisper fiercely to himself when I
replied in the affirmative.

After some further remarks, he consented to take me to Dr. Ceneri,
telling me that his name was Macari. My interview with the doctor was
somewhat unsatisfactory. Pauline had had a shock, but the nature of that
shock he refused to disclose. Macari, before her illness, had imagined
himself in love with her, and was furious at my marriage. One thing,
however, the doctor told me, just as I left, which partially explained
his consent to our union. He had been her guardian, and the fortune of
L50,000 to which she was entitled he had spent in the cause of Italian
freedom. Though he had betrayed his trust, he considered the cause
justified the act; but he had been glad, none the less, to make her some
compensation by marrying her to a wealthy Englishman.

When I left Dr. Ceneri, I met Macari lurking outside. He declared that
in a few weeks he would come to England and explain much that Ceneri had
left unsaid.

Several months later he kept his promise. Ceneri, he told me, had been
arrested in St. Petersburg for participation in some anarchist plot, and
was on his way to Siberia. Of his own personal history he discoursed at
length. His name, it appeared, was really March, and he was Pauline's
brother. In common with his sister, he had been robbed by Ceneri of his
fortune.

He