now. I wish I could
feel some respect even. But I can't. If I could, it would lessen the
horror that has got hold of me to my bones."

It was a torture to her generous soul that she could not grieve for him.
She could only shudder at the tragedy. In her heart she grieved more for
Anastasius Papadopoulos, and in so doing she was, in her feminine way,
self-accusative of callous lack of human feeling. It was my attempt to
bring her to a more rational state of mind that caused us to review the
dead man's career, and recapitulate the unpleasing incidents of the last
interview.

Of Captain Vauvenarde, no more. He has gone whither I am going. That his
soul may rest in peace is my earnest prayer. But I do not wish to meet
him.

Lola went tearless and strong through the horrible ordeal of
the judicial proceedings. She said I gave her courage. Perhaps,
unconsciously, I did. It was only when the end came that she broke down,
although she knew exactly what the end would be. And I, too, felt a lump
in my throat when they sentenced Anastasius Papadopoulos to the asylum,
and I saw him for the last time, the living parody of Napoleon III,
frock-coated and yellow-gloved, the precious, newly written dossier in
his hand, as he disappeared with a mournful smile from the court,
after bowing low to the judge and to us, without having understood the
significance of anything that had happened.

In the carriage that took us home she wept and sobbed bitterly.

"I loved him so. He was the only creature on earth that loved me. He
loved me as only a dog can love--or an angel."

I let her cry. What could I say or do?

These have been weeks of tedious horror and pain. With the exception of
Colonel Bunnion, I have kept myself aloof from my fellow creatures
in the hotel, even taking my meals in my own rooms, not wishing to be
stared at as the hero of the scandal that convulsed the place. And with
regard to Colonel Bunnion shall I be accused of cynicism if I say that
I admitted him--not to my confidence--but to my company, because I know
that it delighted the honest but boring fellow to prove to himself that
he could rise above British prejudice and exhibit tact in dealing with
a man in a delicate position? For, mark you, all the world--even those
nearest and dearest to me as I soon discovered--believed that the wife
of the man who was murdered before my eyes was my mistress. Colonel
Bunnion was kind, and he meant to be kind. He was a gentle