with the pathetic eagerness of a woman who
has kept hateful secrets in her heart too long and at last finds a human
soul in whom she can confide. I think she almost forgot my presence, for
I sat modestly apart, separated from them by the wide cone of light cast
by the shaded lamp.

The first symptoms of mental derangement, she said, had manifested
themselves two years ago. They had gradually increased in frequency and
intensity. During the interval the Comte de Verneuil went about the
world a sane man. The attacks, as she had explained, came on suddenly,
always at night, and his fixed idea was that he had killed Gaston de
Nerac. Before Paragot had appeared they lasted two or three days, till
they spent themselves leaving the patient in great bodily prostration.
When she had met me taking the Spring outside the Hotel Bristol, a wild
idea had entered her head that the confrontation of the Comte with the
living Gaston de Nerac might end his madness. On the occasion of the
next attack she had rushed in eager search for Paragot, had brought him
to the raving bedside, and the result had been magical. She had thought
the cure permanent; but a fortnight later the attack returned, as it had
returned again and again, and as it had returned to-night.

"It is charitable of you to have come, Gaston," she said, in her sweet
way, "and I must ask you to forgive me for anything unkind I may have
said."

He made some reply in a low voice which I did not hear, and for a little
time their talk was pitched in the same tone. I began to grow sleepy. I
aroused myself with a jerk to hear Joanna say,

"Why did you play that detestable tune from 'Orphee aux Enfers'?"

"To see if you would recognise it. Some mocking devil prompted me. It
was the last tune you and I heard together--the night of our engagement
party. The band played it in the garden."

"Don't--don't!" exclaimed Joanna, putting up her hands to her face.

This then was why each had cried out at Aix-les-Bains against the merry
little tune. It was interesting. I saw however that it must have jangled
horribly on tense nerves.

She dashed away her hands suddenly and strained her face towards him.

"Why, Gaston--why did you?"

He rose with a deprecating gesture and there was a hunted look in his
eyes. During all this strange scene he was no longer Paragot, my master,
but Gaston de Nerac whom I did not know. His wild, picturesque speech,
his dear vagabond manner had gone. The hag