. I had a power that no other
man ever possessed, or ever could possess. I was--her husband."

"What?" said Saltash.

Larpent paced on with bent head. "I was her husband. But I was at sea and
she was on shore. And so I lost her. She was not made to stand against
temptation. It came to her when I was on the other side of the world.
When I got back, she was gone. And I--I never followed her. The thing was
hopeless. She was that sort, you understand. It was first one and then
another with her. I dropped her out of my life, and let her go. I didn't
realize then--what I know now--that the power to rescue and to hold her
was mine. If I had, I might have gone after her. I can't say. But I was
too bitter at the time to feel it was worth while. I went back to the sea
and left her to work out her own damnation."

"And yet you loved her?" Saltash said, with a queer twist of the features
that was not of mirth.

"I loved her, yes. If I hadn't loved her I would never have come to her
when she called. That is love--the thing that doesn't die." A sudden
throb sounded in Larpent's voice. He paused for a moment in his walk,
then paced on. "You may laugh at it--call it what you will--but there is
a power on the earth that is stronger than anything else, and when that
power speaks we have got to obey. I didn't want to come. You think me a
damn fool for coming. But I had to. That's all there is to it."

"I don't think you any sort of a fool," Saltash threw in briefly. "You
did the only thing possible."

"Yes, the only thing. I came to her. If I hadn't come, she'd have
died--alone. But that alone wasn't why she sent for me--it was the
primary reason, but not the only one. There was another." Larpent ceased
his pacing and deliberately faced the man who stood listening. "You know
what happened to-night," he said. "That child--the scaramouch you picked
out of the gutter at Valrosa--Toby--do you realize--have you grasped--the
meaning of that yet?"

Saltash flung up his head with an arrogant gesture. "There is one thing
about her you have not grasped," he said. "But go on! I may as well hear
it."

Larpent went on steadily. "When I came to her yesterday she told me of a
child that had been born to her--a child she had loved but had been
unable to protect. It was a long story. Spentoli the Italian artist knows
it from beginning to end. You know Spentoli?"

"I know him," said Saltash.

"Spentoli is a blackguard," Larpent said, "the sort