lated Burnaby, and raised his head like an alert hound.

"How odd it all is!" said Mrs. Malcolm. But she was wondering why men
are so queer with their wives--resent so much the slightest social
clumsiness on their part, while in other women--provided the offense is
not too great--it merely amuses them. Even the guarded manners of Sir
John had been disturbed. For a moment he had been very angry with the
shadow that bore his name; one could tell by the swift glance he had
cast in her direction. After all, upsetting a glass of champagne was a
very natural sequel to a story such as Burnaby had told, a story about a
former acquaintance--perhaps friend.

Sir John thoughtfully helped himself to a spoonful of his dessert before
he looked up; when he did so he laid down his spoon and sat back in his
chair with the manner of a man who has made a sudden decision. "No," he
said, and an unexpected little smile hovered about his lips, "it isn't
so odd. Bewsher was rather a figure of a man twenty years ago. Shall I
tell you his history?"

To Mrs. Malcolm, watching with alert, humorous eyes, there came a
curious impression, faint but distinct, like wind touching her hair; as
if, that is, a door into the room had opened and shut. She leaned
forward, supporting her chin in her hand.

"Of course," she said.

Sir John twisted between his fingers the stem of his champagne-glass and
studied thoughtfully the motes of at the heart of the amber wine. "You
see," he began thoughtfully, "it's such a difficult story to
tell--difficult because it took twenty-five--and, now that Mr. Burnaby
has furnished the sequel, forty-five years--to live; and difficult
because it is largely a matter of psychology. I can only give you the
high lights, as it were. You must fill in the rest for yourselves. You
must imagine, that is, Bewsher and this other fellow--this Morton. I
can't give you his real name--it is too important; you would know it.
No, it isn't obviously dramatic. And yet--" his voice suddenly became
vibrant--"such things compose, as a matter of fact, the real drama of
the world. It--" he looked about the table swiftly and leaned forward,
and then, as if interrupting himself, "but what _was_ obviously
dramatic," he said--and the little dancing sparks in the depths of his
eyes were peculiarly noticeable--"was the way I, of all people, heard
it. Yes. You see, I heard it at a dinner party like this, in London; and
Morton--the man himself--told the s