s."

"I see," Bertram continued, much relieved at finding his revelation
forestalled in its chief episodes; "I see there is not much to tell
you. You are pretty well posted up. I cannot see why you should look so
savage; Mrs. Daker is no relation of yours."

"No!" I shouted, for I could not hold my passion--"had she been----"

"You would have the right to call me to account. As it is," Bertram
added, rising, "I decline to tell you more, and I shall wish you
good-day."

After all Bertram was right; I had no claim to urge, no wrong to
redress. Besides, by my hastiness, I was letting the thread slip through
my fingers.

"Sit down, Bertram; you are the touchiest man alive. It is no concern of
mine, but I have seen more than you imagine--I have seen Daker; I have
been with Sharp."

Bertram grasped my arm.

"Tell me all, then; I must know all. You don't know how I have suffered,
my dear Q. M. Tell me everything."

"First let me ask you, Bertram, have you been an honourable man to Mrs.
Daker?"

"Explain yourself."

"Where is she? Her uncle has broken his heart!"

"All I need say is, that she is with me, and that it is I who have
sacrificed almost my honour in keeping her with me, after----"

I understood the case completely now.

"You found the prey at the right moment, Bertram. Poor forsaken woman!
You took it; you lost it; it falls into your hands again--broken unto
death."

"Unto death!" Bertram echoed.

I related to him my adventure in Boulogne; and when I came to Baker's
end, and his bigamy, Bertram exclaimed--

"The villain! My dear Q. M., I loved--I do love her; she might have been
my wife. The villain!"

"You say she is with you, Bertram. Where? Can I see her?"

"You cannot, she's very ill So ill, I doubt----"

"And you are here, Bertram?"

"Her uncle--Sharp--is with her by this time. She implored me not to be
in the way. There would be a row, you know, and I hate rows."

It was Bertram to the last. _He_ hated rows! I suddenly turned upon him
with an idea that flashed through my mind.

"Bertram, you owe this poor woman some reparation. You love her, you
say--or have loved her."

"Do love her now."

"She is a free woman; indeed, poor soul, she has always been. Marry
her--take her away--and get to some quiet place where you will be
unknown. You will be happy with her, or I have strangely misread her."

"Can't," Bertram dolefully answered. "Not a farthing."

"I'll help you."

Bertram