r. All the hardness had disappeared from
her face. It was transformed by a wonderful new pity--a latent
compassion, stirred for the first time by this miserable man's utter
tragedy. And so transformed she was very lovely--with a loveliness that
all the arts of an accomplished society woman had never bestowed upon
her.

"Forgive me," she said gently. "I would not have said what I did if I
had even thought ... of that."

He looked down at her, a world of agony in his tortured eyes.

"Well," he asked--"do you still want to marry me ... now?"

For an instant the old hardness flashed back.

"You would have married _her_," she returned.

"I wonder," he said slowly. "I wonder ... if I should."

His gaze wandered vacantly round the room.

"She intoxicated me," he said. "Her memory intoxicates me still. She set
fire to all my passions. She made me forget the barrier. But I think I
really hated her. Perhaps ... if she hadn't died in the garden ... I
might have killed her...."

The madness was leaving him, and the weakness of reaction taking its
place. He put a hand on her shoulder, and leant heavily on her. His face
was mild and kind--the face of the normal man.

"Phyllis," he said softly, "I mocked you, and treated you badly. But it
wasn't really I. Forgive a poor madman the sins of his madness."

She made no attempt to check her tears. He took her hand, as gently as a
child.

"Don't cry," he begged. "See--I am all right now. Sit down, and let us
talk."

Still leaning on her, he moved to a couch, and drew her down beside him.

"First," he said, "I will tell you why I lied to Inspector Fay. I did
not go into the house to fill my cigarette case. I was mad. It came on
me--as it often does--when I see sane people about me--a rush of hatred
and despair."

He spoke dispassionately, without a trace of the terrible disorder that
had possessed him a few minutes before. Only the gloom remained--the
shadow that never left him.

"You can understand," he went on, "what my life has been since this
cloud first settled on me. I tried to fight against it--but how could I
fight against a thing that I knew to be there, creeping on me day after
day--when I knew that in the end I must give way? Every hour seemed to
bring some fresh proof of the madness that was in me--some proof that
made resistance more and more futile and hopeless. A thousand times I
have been tempted to kill myself--but always there was the dim,
desperate hop