round. She had raised a crushed face from the pillows, and
looked at me haggardly. I noticed a carafe of brandy and a siphon by the
bedside. I mixed her a strong dose, and, before replying, made her drink
it.

"They'll place him under restraint, that's all. He's not responsible for
his actions."

"He did that once before--I told you--but without the knife--I wish I
could cry--I can't--You don't think it heartless of me--but my brain is
on fire--I shall always see it--I wish to God I had never asked him to
come--Why did I? My God, why did I?--It was my fault--I wanted to see
him--to judge for myself how much of the old Andre was left--there was
good in him once--I thought I might possibly help him--There was nothing
for me to do in the world--Without you any kind of old hell was good
enough--That's why I sent for him--When he came, after a bit, I was
afraid, and sent for you----"

"Afraid of what?" I asked.

"He asked me at once what money I had--Then there seemed to be no doubt
in his mind that I would join him--We spoke of you--the friend who could
advise me--He never said--what he said afterwards--I thought it kind
of him to consent to see you--I rang the bell and sent the chasseur for
you. I supposed Anastasius had gone home--I never thought of him. The
poor little man was sweet to me, just like a dog--a silent,
sympathetic dog--I spoke to him as I would to something that wouldn't
understand--all sorts of foolish things--Now and then a woman has to
empty her heart"--she shivered--her hands before her face.

"It's my fault, it's my fault."

"These things are no one's fault," I said gently. But just as I was
beginning to console her with what thumb-marked scraps of platitude I
could collect--the only philosophy after all, such is the futility of
systems, adequate to the deep issues of life--the door opened and the
manager announced that the police had arrived.

We went through the ordeal of the _proces-verbal_. Anastasius,
confronted with his victim, had no memory of what had occurred. He
shrieked and shrank and hid his face in Lola's dress. When he was forced
to speak he declared that the dead man was not Captain Vauvenarde.
Captain Vauvenarde was at the Cercle Africain. He, himself, was seeking
him. He would take the gendarmes there, and they could arrest the
Captain for the murder of Sultan of which his papers contained
indubitable proofs. Eventually the poor little wretch was led away in
custody, proud an