f high ideals. But he tangled up his
life pretty badly on the night of March 14th, when he tried to cut loose
from his old career. It was a mistake. We've both made mistakes, he and
I. The unfortunate part is that the consequences don't fall on us. They
fall on Mrs Matheson and yourself. You note that I place Mrs Matheson
before yourself? That's deliberate."

Again he paused, but Elaine did not make any comment. She guessed now
what Larssen had come to say to her, and a shiver of fear went through
her. Not fear of Larssen as a man, but as a spokesman for Fate. In the
deliberate unfolding of his statement, there was the passionless gravity
of Fate.

Guessing her thoughts, Larssen's voice deepened as he continued: "I
definitely place Mrs Matheson before yourself. She is his wife. He
married her for better or worse. However mistaken he may have been in
his estimate of her, he must keep to his promise of the altar-side. She
is his wife. As a man of honour, Matheson's first duty is to stand by
his wife. I don't want to wound your feelings, believe me. But I have to
say this: you must realise Mrs Matheson's point of view."

"I think I do."

"Do you realise that she is eating her heart out in loneliness?"

"I didn't know."

"I do know. I went to see her a couple of days ago at Thornton Chase.
The change in her these last few weeks startled me. I deliberately say
this: you have, unknowingly, dealt her a blow from which she will never
recover. She is naturally far from strong, and though I'm not a doctor,
I venture to make this prophecy: within three years, Mrs Matheson will
be dead."

A low cry of expostulation came from Elaine.

"It's an ugly, brutal fact," pursued Larssen, pressing home his
advantage to the fullest extent. Now that he had probed for and reached
the raw nerve of feeling, he intended to keep it tight gripped in the
forceps of his words. "It's brutal, but it's true. Unwittingly, you have
shortened her life."

"I've sent Mr Matheson away," faltered Elaine.

"I guessed that. But will he stay away from you?"

"Yes."

"I doubt it."

"We've said good-bye!"

"But he writes to you?"

There was an answer in her silence.

"He writes to you. That means a great deal--a very great deal."

"What do you want from me?" cried the tortured girl.

"Reparation," was the grave answer.

"To----?"

"To Mrs Matheson--to his wife."

"What more can I do than I have done?"

"Doesn't your heart tell you?"