s
side.

Joanna stretched out her arms full length towards me.

"Read," she cried, and her voice was harsh with no silvery tone in it at
all. I took the paper wonderingly from her fingers.

Why she should have shown it to me, the wretched little pasty-faced
gutter-bred art student, I could not conceive for many of the after
years during which I wrestled with the head- and heart-splitting
perplexities of women. But experience has taught me that human beings,
of whichever sex they may be, will do amazing things in times of
spiritual upheaval. I have known the primmest of vicar's churchwardens
curse like a coal-heaver when a new incumbent chose in his stead a less
prim man than he.

I was just a human entity, I suppose, who had strayed into the sacred
and intimate sphere of her life--the only one perhaps in the world who
had done so. She was stricken to the soul. Instinct compelled my sharing
of her pain.

She commanded me to read. I was only nineteen. Had she commanded me to
drink up eisel or eat a crocodile, I would have done it. I read.

The address of the letter was Eaton Square: the date, the 20th of June
thirteen years before. The wording as follows:--

"In consideration of the sum of Ten thousand pounds I the undersigned
Gaston de Nerac promise and undertake from this moment not to hold any
communication by word or writing with Miss Joanna Rushworth for the
space of two years--that is to say until midnight of the 20th June 18--.
Should however Miss Joanna Rushworth be married in the meantime, I
solemnly undertake on my honour as a gentleman not of my own free will
to hold any communication with her whatever as long as I live, or should
circumstances force us to meet, not to acquaint her in any way with the
terms of this agreement, whereof I hold myself bound by the spirit as
well as by the letter. GASTON DE NERAC."

* * * * *

My young and unpractised mind required some minutes to realise the
meaning of this precious agreement. When it had done so I stared blankly
at Joanna.

The nurse in her businesslike fashion drew the curtains and flung the
French windows wide open.

"He has only fainted. He will soon come round."

She returned to Paragot's side. Joanna and I remained staring at each
other. She rose, took me by the sleeve and dragged me to the fireplace.

"The writing is my husband's," she said in a whisper. "The signature is
his," pointing to Paragot. "He sold me