aid. "You're my friend. And
he's--he's--"

"He's done you a deadly injury. I know that. I am your friend, Serge; I
would do anything for you."

"Yet you speak to that--devil."

"I spoke to him because I'm your friend."

Sergius sat down again, with a heavy look, the look of a man who has
been thrashed, and means to return every blow with curious interest.

"You parsons are a riddle to me," he said in a low and dull voice. "You
and your charity and your loving-kindness, and your turning the cheek to
the smiter and all the rest of it. And as to your way of showing
friendship--"

His voice died away in something that was almost a growl, and he stared
at the carpet. Between it and his eyes once more the mist seemed rising
stealthily. It began to curl upwards softly about him. As he watched it,
he heard Anthony say:--

"Sergius, you don't understand how well I understand you."

The big hand of the clock had left the half-hour after ten behind him.
Anthony breathed more freely. At last he could be more explicit, more
unreserved. He thought of a train rushing through the night, devouring
the spaces of land that lie between London and the sea that speaks,
moaning, to the South of England. He saw a ship glide out from the
dreary docks. Her lights gleamed. He heard the bell struck and the harsh
cry of the sailors, and then the dim sigh of a coward who had escaped
what he had merited. Then he heard Sergius laugh.

"That again, Anthony!"

"Yes. I didn't meet Vernon by chance at all."

"What? You wrote to him, you fixed a meeting?"

"I went to Phillimore Place, to his house."

Sergius said nothing. Strange furrows ploughed themselves in his young
face, which was growing dusky white. He remained in the attitude of one
devoted entirely to listening.

"You hear, Sergius?"

"Go on--when?"

"To-day. I decided to go after I met you yesterday night--and after I
had seen that woman die--unprepared."

"What could she have to do with it?"

"Much. Everything almost."

Anthony got up now, almost sprang up from his chair. His face was
glowing and working with emotion. There was a choking sensation in his
throat.

"You don't know what it is," he said hoarsely, "to a man with--with
strong religious belief to see a human being's soul go out to blackness,
to punishment--perhaps to punishment that will never end. It's
abominable. It's unbearable. That woman will haunt me. Her despair will
be with me always. I could not add