his hair
gray with age or excesses, or was it only colorless like the rest of
his exterior?

"Restitution is not expiation," he said, sadly, without looking up.
"I loved the cause; I love it still; I practised deception, and I am
here to ask this gentle lady to forgive me for an unworthy yet
unselfish use of her money and her hospitality. If she can pardon me I
welcome whatever punishment may be meted out."

The Countess dropped her elbow on the arm of my chair and rested her
face in her hand.

"Swept away by my passion for the cause of universal brotherhood,"
said Buckhurst, in his low, caressing voice, "I ventured to spend
this generous lady's money to carry the propaganda into the more
violent centres of socialism--into the clubs in Montmartre and
Belleville. There I urged non-resistance; I pleaded moderation and
patience. What I said helped a little, I think--"

He hesitated, twisting his fly-box into a paper creature with four
legs.

"I was eager; people listened. I thought that if I had a little more
money I might carry on this work.... I could not come to you,
madame--"

"Why not?" said the Countess, looking at him quickly. "I have never
refused you money!"

"No," he said, "you never refused me. But I knew that La Trappe was
mortgaged, that even this house in Morsbronn was loaded with debt. I
knew, madame, that in all the world you had left but one small roof to
cover you--the house in Morbihan, on Point Paradise. I knew that if I
asked for money you would sell Paradise,... and I could not ask so
much,... I could not bring myself to ask that sacrifice."

"And so you stole the crucifix of Louis XI.," I suggested,
pleasantly.

He did not look at me, but the Countess did.

"Bon," I thought, watching Buckhurst's deft fingers; "he means to be
taken back into grace. I wonder exactly why? And ... is it worth this
fortune in diamonds to him to be pardoned by a penniless girl whom he
and his gang have already stripped?"

"Could you forgive me, madame?" murmured Buckhurst.

"Would you explain that stick of dynamite first?" I interposed.

The Countess turned and looked directly at Buckhurst. He sat with
humble head bowed, nimbly constructing a paper bird.

"That was not dynamite; it was concentrated phosphorus," he said,
without resentment. "Naturally it burned when you lighted it, but if
you had not burned it I could easily have shown Madame la Comtesse
what it really was."

"I also," said I, "if I ha