course he did," said Sir Reginald.

"Of course he did," said Bernard.

"Yes," she assented. "He couldn't help himself then. But he ought to
have told me afterwards--when--when I began to have that horrible
suspicion that everyone else had, that he had murdered Ralph Dacre."

"A difficult point," said Sir Reginald.

"I told him he was making a mistake," said Bernard.

Stella glanced down at him. "It was a mistake," she said. "But he made
it out of love for me, because he thought--he thought--that my pride was
dearer to me than my love. I don't wonder he thought so. I gave him
every reason. For I wouldn't listen to him, wouldn't believe him. I sent
him away." Her breath caught suddenly, and she put a quick hand to her
throat. "That is what hurts me most," she said after a moment,--"just to
remember that,--to remember what I made him suffer--how I failed
him--when Tommy, even Tommy, believed in him--went after him to tell him
so."

"But we all make mistakes," said Sir Reginald gently, "or we shouldn't
be human."

She controlled herself with an effort. "Yes. He said that, and told me
to forget it. I don't know if I can, but I shall try. I shall try to
make up to him for it for as long as I live. And I thank God--for giving
me the chance."

Her deep voice quivered, and Bernard's hand tightened upon hers. "Yes,"
he said, looking at Sir Reginald. "Ralph Dacre is dead. He was the
unknown man who was shot in the jungle two nights ago."

"Indeed!" said Sir Reginald sharply.

"Yes," Stella said. "He too had found out--about the death of his first
wife. And he was on his way to me. But--" she suddenly covered her
eyes--"I couldn't have borne it. I would have killed myself first."

Bernard reached up and thrust his arm about her, without speaking.

She leaned against him for a few seconds as if the story had taxed her
strength too far. Then Sir Reginald came to her and with a fatherly
gesture drew her hand away from her face.

"My dear," he said very kindly, "thank you a thousand times for telling
me this. I know it's been infernally hard. I admire you for it more than
I can say. It hasn't been too much for you I hope?"

She smiled at him through tears. "No--no! You are both--so kind."

He stooped with a very courtly gesture and carried her hand to his lips.
"Everard Monck is a very lucky man," he said, "but I think he is almost
worthy of his luck. And now--I want you to tell me one thing more. Where
can I find him