their drawing-room she left my arm and walked in first,
catching at the chairs and tables. She unpinned her hat, then, exhausted
with the effort, her cloak still hanging from her shoulders, flung
herself into a deep armchair, sideways, her face half buried in a
cushion. The good brother appeared silently before her with a glass of
water. She motioned it away. He drank it himself and walked off to a
distant corner--behind the grand piano, somewhere. All was still in this
room where I had seen, for the first time, Sevrin, the anti-anarchist,
captivated and spellbound by the consummate and hereditary grimaces that
in a certain sphere of life take the place of feelings with an excellent
effect. I suppose her thoughts were busy with the same memory. Her
shoulders shook violently. A pure attack of nerves. When it quieted down
she affected firmness, 'What is done to a man of that sort? What will
they do to him?'

"'Nothing. They can do nothing to him,' I assured her, with perfect
truth. I was pretty certain he had died in less than twenty minutes
from the moment his hand had gone to his lips. For if his fanatical
anti-anarchism went even as far as carrying poison in his pocket, only to
rob his adversaries of legitimate vengeance, I knew he would take care
to provide something that would not fail him when required.

"She drew an angry breath. There were red spots on her cheeks and a
feverish brilliance in her eyes.

"'Has ever any one been exposed to such a terrible experience? To think
that he had held my hand! That man!' Her face twitched, she gulped down
a pathetic sob. 'If I ever felt sure of anything, it was of Sevrin's
high-minded motives.'

"Then she began to weep quietly, which was good for her. Then through
her flood of tears, half resentful, 'What was it he said to me?--"From
conviction!" It seemed a vile mockery. What could he mean by it?'

"'That, my dear young lady,' I said, gently, 'is more than I or anybody
else can ever explain to you.'"

Mr. X flicked a crumb off the front of his coat.

"And that was strictly true as to her. Though Horne, for instance,
understood very well; and so did I, especially after we had been to
Sevrin's lodging in a dismal back street of an intensely respectable
quarter. Horne was known there as a friend, and we had no difficulty in
being admitted, the slatternly maid merely remarking, as she let us in,
that 'Mr Sevrin had not been home that night.' We forced open a couple
of dr