. Dear Mrs. Valeria, I wanted to see you
walk."

To see me walk! What did he mean? Where was that erratic mind of his
wandering to now?

"You have a rare accomplishment for an Englishwoman," he resumed--"you
walk well. _She_ walked well. I couldn't resist the temptation of seeing
her again, in seeing you. It was _her_ movement, _her_ sweet, simple,
unsought grace (not yours), when you walked to the end of the room and
returned to me. You raised her from the dead when you fetched the chair
and the screen. Pardon me for making use of you: the idea was innocent,
the motive was sacred. You have distressed--and delighted me. My heart
bleeds--and thanks you."

He paused for a moment; he let his head droop on his breast, then
suddenly raised it again.

"Surely we were talking about her last night?" he said. "What did I say?
what did you say? My memory is confused; I half remember, half forget.
Please remind me. You're not offended with me--are you?"

I might have been offended with another man. Not with him. I was far too
anxious to find my way into his confidence--now that he had touched of
his own accord on the subject of Eustace's first wife--to be offended
with Miserrimus Dexter.

"We were speaking," I answered, "of Mrs. Eustace Macallan's death, and
we were saying to one another--"

He interrupted me, leaning forward eagerly in his chair.

"Yes! yes!" he exclaimed. "And I was wondering what interest _you_ could
have in penetrating the mystery of her death. Tell me! Confide in me! I
am dying to know!"

"Not even you have a stronger interest in that subject than the interest
that I feel," I said. "The happiness of my whole life to come depends on
my clearing up the mystery."

"Good God--why?" he cried. "Stop! I am exciting myself. I mustn't do
that. I must have all my wits about me; I mustn't wander. The thing is
too serious. Wait a minute!"

An elegant little basket was hooked on to one of the arms of his chair.
He opened it, and drew out a strip of embroidery partially finished,
with the necessary materials for working, a complete. We looked at each
other across the embroidery. He noticed my surprise.

"Women," he said, "wisely compose their minds, and help themselves to
think quietly, by doing needle-work. Why are men such fools as to
deny themselves the same admirable resource--the simple and soothing
occupation which keeps the nerves steady and leaves the mind calm and
free? As a man, I follow the woman