gers, of course, talked. Many "true histories" of Mrs.
Falchion's devotion to the sick man were abroad; but it must be said,
however, that all of them were romantically creditable to her. She
had become a rare product even in the eyes of Miss Treherne, and more
particularly her father, since the matter at the Tanks. Justine Caron
was slyly besieged by the curious, but they went away empty; for
Justine, if very simple and single-minded, was yet too much concerned
for both Galt Roscoe and Mrs. Falchion to give the inquiring the
slightest clue. She knew, indeed, little herself, whatever she may have
guessed. As for Hungerford, he was dumb. He refused to consider the
matter. But he roundly maintained once or twice, without any apparent
relevance, that a woman was like a repeating decimal--you could follow
her, but you never could reach her. He usually added to this: "Minus
one, Marmion," meaning thus to exclude the girl who preferred him to any
one else. When I ventured to suggest that Miss Treherne might also be
excepted, he said, with maddening suggestion: "She lets Mrs. Falchion
fool her, doesn't she? And she isn't quite sure the splendour of a
medical professor's position is superior to that of an author."

In these moments, although I tried to smile on him, I hated him a
little. I sought to revenge myself on him by telling him to help
himself to a cigar, having first placed the box of Mexicans near him. He
invariably declined them, and said he would take one of the others
from the tea-box--my very best, kept in tea for sake of dryness. If
I reversed the process he reversed his action. His instinct regarding
cigars was supernatural, and I almost believe that he had--like the
Black Dwarf's cat--the "poo'er" of reading character and interpreting
events--an uncanny divination.

I knew by the time we reached Valetta that Roscoe would get well; but he
recognised none of us until we arrived at Gibraltar. Justine Caron and
myself had been watching beside him. As the bells clanged to "slow
down" on entering the harbour, his eyes opened with a gaze of sanity and
consciousness. He looked at me, then at Justine.

"I have been ill?" he said.

Justine's eyes were not entirely to be trusted. She turned her head
away.

"Yes, you have been very ill," I replied, "but you are better."

He smiled feebly, adding: "At least, I am grateful that I did not die at
sea." Then he closed his eyes. After a moment he opened them, and said,
lo