hard--hard as iron, clean-shaven, with an immensely
powerful jaw, and eyes that looked clean through you. He was one of
those short, broad Englishmen--you know the sort--out of proportion
everywhere, but so splendidly strong. He just hated me for making
friends with him. It was very funny."

An odd little note of laughter ran through the words--that laughter
which is akin to tears.

"But I didn't care for that," she said. "It didn't hurt me in the least.
He was too big to give offence to an impudent little minx like me.
Besides, I wanted him to help me, and after a bit I told him so.
Archie--my cousin, you know; he was only a boy then--was mad on
card-playing at that time. And I was real worried about him. I knew he
would get into a hole sooner or later, and I begged my surly Englishman
to keep an eye on him. Oh, I was a fool! I was a brainless, chattering
fool! And I'm not much better now, I often think."

Cynthia's hand went up to her eyes. The vision in the fire was all
blurred and indistinct.

Babbacombe was leaning forward, listening intently. The firelight
flickered on his face, showing it very grave and still. He did not
attempt to speak.

Nevertheless, after a moment, Cynthia made a wavering movement with one
hand in his direction.

"I'm not crying, Jack. Don't be silly! I'm sure your cigarette is out."

It was. He pitched it past her into the fire.

"Light another," she pleaded. "I love them so. They are the kind he
always smoked. That's nearly the end of the story. You can almost guess
the rest. That very night Archie did get into a hole, a bad one, and the
only way my friend could lift him out was by getting down into it
himself. He saved him, but it was at his own expense; for it made people
begin to reflect. And in the end--in the end, when we came into harbour,
they came on board, and--and arrested him early in the morning--before I
knew. You see, he--he was Nat Verney."

Cynthia's dark head was suddenly bowed upon her hands. She was rocking
to and fro in the firelight.

"And it was my fault," she sobbed--"all my fault. If--if he hadn't done
that thing for me, no one would have known--no one would have
suspected!"

She had broken down completely at last, and the man who heard her
wondered, with a deep compassion, how often she had wept, in secret and
uncomforted, as she was weeping now.

He bore it till his humanity could endure no longer. And then, very
gently, he reached out, touched her,