s it for good or evil? Her eyes sought his eagerly. So much
depended upon his first few words.

Wingrave closed the door behind him. His greetings were laconic as
usual. He addressed Lady Ruth.

"I find myself obliged," he said, "to take a journey which may possibly
be a somewhat protracted one. I wished, before I left, to see you
and your husband. I sent for you together, but I wish to speak to you
separately--to your husband first. You have often expressed a desire to
see over my house, Lady Ruth. My major domo is outside. Will you forgive
me if I send you away for a few minutes?"

Lady Ruth rose slowly to her feet.

"How long do you wish me to keep away?" she asked calmly.

"A few minutes only," he answered. "You will find me here when Parkinson
has shown you round."

He held the door open and she passed out, with a single upward and
wondering glance. Wingrave closed the door, and seated himself close to
where Barrington was standing.

"Barrington," he said, "twenty years ago we were friends. Since then we
have been enemies. Today, so far as I am concerned, we are neither."

Barrington started a little. His lips twitched nervously. He did not
quite understand.

"I am sure, Wingrave--" he began.

Wingrave interrupted him ruthlessly.

"I give you credit," he continued, "for understanding that my attitude
towards you since I--er--reappeared, has been inimical. I intended you
to speculate, and you did speculate. I meant you to lose, and you have
lost. The money I lent to your wife was meant to remain a rope around
your neck. The fact that I lent it to her was intended to humiliate you,
the attentions which I purposely paid to her in public were intended to
convey a false impression to society--and in this, too, I fancy that I
have been successful."

Barrington drew a thick breath--the dull color was mounting to his
cheeks.

Wingrave continued calmly--

"I had possibly in my mind, at one time," he said, "the idea of drawing
things on to a climax--of witnessing the final disappearance of yourself
and your wife from the world--such as we know it. I have, however,
ceased to derive amusement or satisfaction from pursuing what we may
call my vengeance. Consequently, it is finished."

The light of hope leaped into Barrington's dull eyes, but he recognized
Wingrave's desire for silence.

"A few feet to your left, upon my writing table," Wingrave continued,
"you will find an envelope addressed to yourself. It