g with himself in desperate distress. There was something to
be said which Marston found it bitterly difficult to say. At last, he
spoke slowly, forcing his words and holding his features in masklike
rigidity of control.

"I remember it all now, George." He hesitated as his friend nodded;
then, with a drawing of his brows and a tremendous effort, he added,
huskily:

"And I must go to my wife."

Steele hesitated before answering.

"You can't do that, Bob," he said, gently. "I was near her as long as
could be. I think she is entirely happy now."

The man in the bed looked up. His eyes read the eyes of the other. If
there was in his pulse a leaping sense of release, he gave it no
expression.

"Dead?" he whispered.

Steele nodded.

For a time, Marston gazed up at the ceiling with a fixed stare. Then,
his face clouded with black self-reproach.

"If I could blot out that injury from memory! God knows I meant it as
kindness."

"There is time enough to forget," said Steele.

It was some days later that Marston went with Steele to the _Hotel
Voltaire_. There was much to be explained and done. He learned for the
first time the details of the expedition that Steele had made to
South America, and then to Europe; of the matter of the pictures and
St. John's connection with them, and of the mystifying circumstances
of the name registered at the Elysee Palace Hotel. That incident they
never fathomed.

St. John had buried his daughter in the _Cimetiere Montmartre_. After
the first mention of the matter on his recovery to consciousness,
Marston had not again alluded to his former wife, until he was able to
go to the spot, and place a small tribute on her grave. Standing
there, somewhat awestruck, his face became deeply grave, and, looking
up at his friend, he spoke with deep agitation:

"There is one part of my life that was a tremendous mistake. I sought
to act with regard for a misconceived duty and kindness, and I only
inflicted infinite pain. I want you to know, and I tell you here at a
spot that is to me very solemn, that I never abandoned her. When I
left for America, it was at her command. It was with the avowal that I
should remain subject to her recall as long as we both lived. I should
have kept my word. It's not a thing that I can talk of again. You
know all that has happened since, but for once I must tell you."

Steele felt that nothing he could say would make the recital easier,
and he merely inclined h