eived. Adrian had everything to gain by his
destruction--and was he likely to throw away the crowning triumph of his
plot at the very moment of grasping it? Not in the very least likely,
and besides, the barrier of pride rose up against any such course.

And what of Aletta? Never now would he get at the mystery which had
dictated that enigmatical message, never now ascertain what had caused
her great love to fail and waver in distrust and doubt. That Adrian was
behind this, too, he was equally certain. He had not been mistaken in
Aletta. Her nature was no ordinary one to be disturbed and shaken by a
mere ordinary motive for doubt, however craftily suggested. Yet what
was the secret of that doubt? Try, rack his brains as he would, he got
no nearer to it than before. Her words were always in his mind:
`Remember, _I saw_,' but never suggesting even the feeblest glimmer of
explanation. What had she seen--when, where, and how? Nothing that
regarded him. On that point his conscience was perfectly clear. Since
they had exchanged their mutual love vows his conscience, as towards
her, was as clear as the sky above them at that moment. Yes, looking
back now upon those long and happy months, he realised that the latter
end of his life, at any rate, had contained for him all that was worth
living for. And now that he had touched its outer edge, a strange
philosophical feeling of satisfaction that she, at any rate, would not
have her life spoiled by his memory, if she had already learned to
distrust him, came over him--a satisfaction that well-nigh quenched the
bitterness and disillusioning that she had done so. Almost, but not
quite--for, after all, he was but human.

The hours wore on. His guards thrust food and drink--of the coarsest
description--into his prison, and retired without a word, carefully
relocking the door. It was evident that they were under very special
orders, and would answer no questions. He was left once more to his own
thoughts.

Colvin stood in no greater fear of death than most other men who have
more than once seen it very near; yet that helpless sense of being shut
up, to meet it in cold blood at a given time, was a trifle creepy and
unnerving. More than once, in his dreams, he had been under sentence of
death, had even come to the steps of the scaffold, and each time had
seemed every bit as realistic as the last, or, if possible, more so.
Was this, too, a dream? Should he wake up di