n the first to know of it. Yet
the incredible truth was being thrust at him that Michael had struggled
through his first love without drawing upon the deep wells of
Wentworth's knowledge.

"The woman I fell in love with was Fay. She was seventeen. I was
nineteen."

The room went round with Wentworth.

"Fay," he said, in blank astonishment, "Fay!" Then a glare of light
broke in on him.

"Then it was she," he stammered, "not her maid, as that brute Alington
said--it was she--she herself that----"

"It was her I went to see the night I was arrested. I was deeply in love
with her."

Michael paused a moment, and then added gently, "She never cared for
me. I did not see that clearly at the time, because I was blinded by my
own passion. I have seen it since."

Wentworth made no movement.

"I decided to leave Rome. Fay wrote to me that I ought to go. I went to
say good-bye to her in the garden the night the Marchese was murdered.
While I was in the garden, the murder was discovered and the place was
surrounded, and I could not get away. I hid in Fay's boudoir. The Duke
came in and explained to Fay what had happened. It was the first I knew
of it. Then, when they searched the house and I saw that I must be
discovered in another moment, I came out and gave myself up as the
murderer, because I could not be found hiding in Fay's rooms at night.
It was the only thing to do."

Fay took a long breath. What a simple explanation it seemed after all.
Why had she been so terrified? Wentworth could not blame her seriously
now.

"I never tried to shield the Marchesa," Michael went on. "That was her
own idea. I only wanted to shield Fay from being--misconstrued. The Duke
understood. He saw me hiding behind the screen, and tried to save me. He
told me so next day. The Duke was good to me from first to last."

Wentworth turned a fierce, livid face towards his brother.

"Have I really got at the truth at last?" he said. "How can I tell? The
Duke could have told me, but he is dead. Did he really connive at your
romantic passion for his wife? If I may venture to offer an opinion,
that part of the story is not quite so well thought out as the rest,
though it is excessively modern. Anyhow he is dead. You tell me he saw
you behind the screen in his wife's rooms at midnight, and felt no need
of an explanation. How like an Italian. But he is dead. And you forced
your love on another man's wife, though you own she did not return it,
wo