I held the small brass stamp towards her, inviting her to examine it, but she shrank back with an expression of terror and repulsion, refusing to touch it.

“Have you ever seen Dudley with this in his hand?” I asked, repeating my question seriously, determined upon learning the truth.

“Where did you find it?” she inquired, a look of bewilderment upon her haggard face.

“You have not answered my question, Ella,” I said sternly.

“Your question? Ah!” she cried, as if in sudden remembrance of my words. “I – I have never seen Dudley with it. I – I swear I haven’t.”

“Is that the absolute truth?” I asked in doubt.

“The truth!” she echoed. “Did I not, a moment ago, promise you I would never again deceive you by word or action? Can you never have confidence in me?” she asked, in a tone of mingled regret and reproach.

“But this was found in Dudley’s possession,” I said, holding it nearer my gaze, and detecting in the bright sunlight streaming through the window small portions of black wax still adhering to the cleverly-cut coat of arms. Black wax, I remembered, had been used to secure the dummy envelope.

“And even if that were so, is it such a very remarkable fact that a man should carry a seal?” she asked suddenly, raising her brows and assuming a well-feigned air of surprise. At that instant it occurred to me that she was an adept in preserving a mystery; she could practice deception with a verisimilitude little short of marvellous.

“But this,” I observed, “is no ordinary seal.”

“It looks ordinary enough,” she answered, smiling. “It’s only brass.”

“But its discovery forms a clue to a most serious and startling crime,” I said.

“A crime!” she gasped. “What do you mean? Dudley’s murder?”

I did not fail to notice that she used the word “murder” as if she had absolute proof that death had not been due to natural causes. Yet the effect of my announcement had been to fill her with sudden apprehension. She strove to appear amazed, but I thought I could detect in her attitude and bearing a fear that I had knowledge of her secret.

“It is most probably connected with that tragic event,” I answered meaningly, looking her straight in the face. “The police will no doubt pursue their investigations and clear up the matter.”

“The police!” she whispered hoarsely, just as Mrs Laing had done when the officers had entered her house. “Do you think they will discover the cause of poor Dudley’s death?”

“I cannot say,” I answered calmly. “They will, however, discover the reason he had this seal in his possession.”

“I tell you it was not his – I mean I never saw him with it,” she protested.

“But he may have had it in his pocket and not shown it to you. Indeed, there were reasons that he should not do so because it was used for a nefarious purpose.”

“For what?” she asked, suddenly evincing an interest in the stamp, taking it from my hand and examining it closely.

It was on my tongue to relate to her the whole circumstances, but suddenly remembering that for the present the secret of England’s peril must be preserved if the identity of the spy were to be discovered, I refrained, and answered, —

“The man who used that seal committed one of the worst crimes of which a man can be guilty.”

“What was it; tell me?” she asked quickly. “Surely Dudley never committed any offence!”

“I am not certain,” I answered gloomily. “An enemy who would pose as a friend, as he has done, might be capable of any deceit.”

“Have I not already told you that he was not your enemy, Geoffrey?” she observed calmly.

“Ah, Ella,” I cried in disgust, “all these falsehoods only render your conduct the more despicable. You will deny next that you went down to Warnham to meet him surreptitiously.”

“To Warnham?” she cried, white to the lips.

“Yes. Do you deny it?”

“No. I – it is quite true that I met him there,” she faltered.

“You spent the day with my rival, unknown to me,” I went on bitterly. “Yet you declare that you never loved him?”

Her breath came and went in short, quick gasps, her haggard eyes were fixed; she stood silent, unable to make reply.

“It is useless to further prolong this painful interview,” I exclaimed at last, turning from her.

“I swear I never loved him,” she cried suddenly. “Some day, when you know the truth, you will bitterly regret how you have misjudged me, how, while striving to serve you, I have fallen under suspicion.”

“But your visit to Warnham!” I said. “Is that an act such as can be overlooked without explanation?”

“I only ask you to place trust in me, and I will prove ere long that I acted under compulsion.”

“You want me to believe that he held you irrevocably in his power, I suppose?” I said with biting sarcasm.

She nodded, and held her head in downcast, dejected attitude.

“It is easy enough to allege all this, now that he is dead,” I observed doubtingly.

“I have told you the truth. I feared him, and was compelled to obey,” she exclaimed hoarsely.

“What was the object of your visit? Surely you can explain that?”

“No. I cannot.”

“You absolutely refuse?”

“Absolutely,” she answered, in a low, strained voice, looking straight at me with an expression of determination.

“Then we must part,” I said, slowly but firmly disengaging myself from her embrace.

“No, no,” she wailed, sobbing bitterly and clinging more closely to me. “Do not be so cruel, Geoffrey. You would never utter these words could you know all.”

“But you will not tell me,” I cried.

“At present I dare not. Wait; be patient, and you shall know everything.”

“How long must I remain in doubt and ignorance?” I asked.

“I know not. To-morrow the bond of secrecy may be removed from my lips, or it may be many months ere I can fearlessly speak and explain,” she answered in a strange voice, almost as if speaking to herself.

“From your words it would appear that some person still holds power over you, even though Dudley is dead,” I said, looking into her eyes seriously.

She sighed deeply, and her hand, resting upon my shoulder, trembled violently. “Yes, you guess the truth,” she answered. “I would tell you all – explain all these facts that no doubt puzzle you and cause me to appear base, heartless and deceitful – yet I fear the consequences. If I did so we should be parted for ever.”

“But if you told the truth and cleared your conduct, I should then have confidence again, and love you. How should we be parted?”

Pale and silent she stood, with her eyes resting upon the distant line of drooping willows. Not until I had repeated my question did she move and answer in a voice almost inaudible, as she clung to me, —

“We should be parted by death,” she whispered hoarsely.

“By death!” I cried, dismayed. “What do you mean, Ella? Do you fear that the same tragic fate that has overtaken Dudley will overtake you?”

She shuddered, and burying her white face upon my shoulder, again burst into a torrent of tears. Hers was indeed a woeful figure, bent, dejected and grief-stricken. Raising her head at last, she stifled her sobs with an effort, and implored with earnestness, —

“Tell me, Geoffrey, that you will not prejudge me. Tell me with your own lips that you will be content to wait in patience until I can present the facts to you in their true light. I am not an adventuress, as you think. I have never, I swear before Heaven, looked upon any other man with thought of affection. I have told you of my inability to speak; I can tell you no more.”

I made a movement, steady, stern and deliberate, to put her from me; but, with her arms around my neck, she cried in an agonised tone, —

“No, Geoffrey. At least show me a single grain of pity. Be patient. If you desire it I will not come near you until I can reply to your questions and clear my conduct of the stigma upon it; I will do anything you ask so long as you give me time to pursue my investigations and free myself from this terrible thraldom. Say you will, and bring back peace to my mind and happiness to my heart. I love you, Geoffrey, I love you!” and her hot, passionate lips met mine in a manner that showed plainly her terrible agitation, and her fear lest I should cast her off.

Slowly, during those moments of painful silence that followed, my anger and bitterness somewhat abated, and, even against my better judgment, feelings of pity swayed my mind. It seemed to me, as I reflected upon the past, that Dudley Ogle had been unfortunate in his early surroundings and education; his character had received a wrong bias from the very beginning, and the possession of wealth had increased it. And yet, in spite of all that, there had been something pleasant and good in him. No man is altogether hideous when truly known, and I had not yet accurately ascertained the character of his mysterious relations with my well-beloved. I had, during this interview, caught glimpses of the real, true woman beneath the veil of falsehood and evasion of the truth; I had seen a wistful look occasionally in Ella’s eyes, as though she were haunted constantly by some terrible dread.

Yea, I pitied her. Perhaps, if I waited, the time would come when her nature would recover from the blight that had fallen upon it; when the alien element that had grafted itself upon her true life would be expelled by those avenging powers that vex and plague the erring soul, not in mockery, but to save it from the death that cannot die.

The strangeness of her manner, and the tragic apprehension of her words would, I knew, never fade from my memory; yet half inclined to believe I had misjudged her, I at length, although feeling that the world could never again be quite the same for me, drew her slight form towards me, and imprinting a long, passionate kiss upon her ready lips, said, —

“I will try and think of you as a woman who has been wronged, Ella. I will wait until you can explain, but remember that until you relate to me truthfully the whole of the facts there can be no love between us.”

“No love!” she wailed in a voice of poignant grief. “Is your love for me so utterly dead, then, that you should say this?”

“No,” I answered, caressing her, stroking her wealth of gold-brown hair fondly as of old. “I love you still, Ella; yet, speaking candidly, I cannot trust you further until you explain the truth.”

“But you will be patient, will you not?” she urged. “Remember that I have before me a task so difficult that it may require all my woman’s tact and cunning to accomplish it. But I will – I must succeed; failure will mean that I lose you, my best beloved. Therefore wait, and ere long I will convince you that I have not lied.”

“Yes, I will wait,” I said, kissing her once again. “Until you have cleared yourself, however, remember that I cannot love you as I have done.”

“Very well,” she answered, her tear-stained face brightening. “If such is your decision, I am content. Before long I will explain all the facts, and then, I feel confident, you, noblest and dearest, will love me even better than before.”

“I trust I shall,” I answered with heartfelt earnestness, taking her small hand and pressing it softly; “for I love you, Ella.”

“I care for nothing else,” she answered, raising her face to mine and smiling through her tears. “I am happy in the knowledge that you still think of me. You have enemies; yes, many. But there was one that loved you always – ay, and loves you now, and ever shall love you.”

For a moment I gazed into the deep blue depths of her clear, trusting eyes, still grasping her tiny hand in mine, but almost at that instant the door opened and Mrs Laing, fussy, good-natured, and full of sympathy, entered, and seating herself, commenced to chat about the events of that memorable morning.

Chapter Ten
England’s Peril

By the discovery of the duplicate of Lord Warnham’s private seal in the possession of my dead companion, it became impressed upon my mind that Dudley Ogle, the man in whom I had placed implicit trust, had not only abused my confidence by making love to Ella, but was a spy in the Russian secret service. Try how I would I could see no extenuating circumstances, and as next morning, when sitting alone in my London flat, moody and disconsolate, I calmly reflected upon the startling events of the past few days, I saw plainly, from Ella’s attitude when I had exhibited the brass stamp, that, notwithstanding her declaration to the contrary, she had seen it before.

It seemed placed beyond all doubt that Dudley had acted in conjunction with certain agents, who had by some means ascertained the very day and hour that the secret convention would arrive from Berlin. Then Dudley, armed with the forged duplicate, called upon me, and while we were together extracted the document from my pocket and substituted the envelope. Yet there was the registration mark upon it, so cleverly imitated as to defy detection. How that had been placed upon the dummy puzzled me, for the designation I had written could not be known until the envelope, with its precious contents, had been filched from my pocket.

The reason of Dudley’s visit to Warnham was now, to a certain extent, explained. More than probable it seemed that through bribery he had obtained from one of the servants an impression in wax of the Earl’s private seal, and from it the brass stamp had been cut. The theft of the document had been accomplished with a neatness that seemed almost miraculous; and if Dudley really had stolen it, he must have been a most adroit pickpocket. Nevertheless, even though his every action had now corroborated up to the hilt the suspicion that he was a spy, I could not, somehow, believe him capable of such crafty, nay devilish, deception. Friends that we were, I could have trusted him with any secret, or with any of my possessions; but these revelations startled and amazed me.

Still there was a more remarkable and puzzling phase of the mystery. If Ella’s fears were well grounded, why had he been murdered, and by whom?

The mysterious secret possessed by the woman I adored, the woman who held me under the spell of her marvellous beauty, was of a tragic and terrible nature, I felt assured. No doubt it had some connection with Dudley’s death, and that sinister circumstance, once elucidated, would, I knew, furnish a very valuable clue to the identity of the spy, if perchance the innocence of my companion should be established, as I hoped it might be.

There was still one fact, too, that required explanation, one that seemed to prove conclusively that Dudley was in the pay of our enemies. I had found, on looking over his possessions in our cottage at Shepperton, some pieces of crumpled foolscap. He had evidently intended to throw them away, but being unable to get rid of them at the moment, had placed them in a drawer and locked them up. On smoothing them out, I found another piece of paper inside. To my astonishment I saw it was a letter written by me, while the pieces of foolscap accompanying it were covered with words and sentences in ink and pencil, showing how carefully he had studied and copied all the characteristics of my handwriting. These papers were, in themselves, sufficient evidence that he had practised the forger’s art.

I had, after leaving Staines, returned straight to Shepperton, and in company with a detective carefully investigated all my friend’s belongings. We spent the afternoon and evening in reading through heaps of letters, but discovered nothing that would lead to any suspicion of foul play. The detective made notes of one or two of the addresses of the writers, and took charge of several letters relating to money matters. When, however, we had removed all the correspondence from the small wooden box in which it had been kept, the detective ascertained that there was a false bottom, and unable to find out the secret whereby it might be opened, we forced it with a chisel.

At first we were disappointed, only one insignificant-looking paper being therein concealed, but when the officer eagerly opened it I at once recognised its extreme importance, although I preserved silence. The paper was nothing less than a Russian passport of a special character signed by the Chief of Secret Police in St Petersburg, and countersigned by the Minister of the Interior himself. It was not a formally printed document, but written in Russian upon official paper stamped with the double-headed eagle. It was made out in the name of Dudley Ogle, and after explaining that he was an official engaged on secret service, gave him complete immunity from arrest within the Russian Empire.

“What’s this, I wonder?” the detective said, puzzled by the unfamiliar characters in the writing.

Taking it from him I glanced through it, and without betraying the slightest surprise, answered, “Merely a passport for Russia.”

“That doesn’t lead us to anything,” he replied, taking it from my form, glancing at it again for an instant, and tossing it back carelessly into the box.

But when he had completed his investigations, removed whatever letters and papers he thought might be of use and departed, I secured the passport and the crumpled foolscap, and giving Juckes orders to remove my belongings back to London and give up possession of the cottage, I returned to Rossetti Mansions.

With these undeniable evidences of Ogle’s activity as a spy, I was sitting alone next morning pondering over the best course to pursue, at last resolving to go to the Foreign Office and boldly place the startling facts before Lord Warnham.

About noon I knocked at the door of the Minister’s private room, and received, in his deep, hoarse voice, permission to enter. He was alone, seated at his big writing-table, engrossed in a long, closely-written document he was studying.

“Well, sir,” he exclaimed, with an expression of displeasure when he saw me, “to what, pray, do I owe this intrusion?”

“I have come,” I said, “to clear myself of the charge you have made against me.”

“To clear yourself! Bah!” he cried in disgust, returning to his papers. “My time is too valuable for further discussion,” and he made a movement to ring the bell for a messenger to conduct me out.

But I placed my hand upon his bony fingers firmly, and stayed it, saying, —

“It is to your interest, Lord Warnham, as well as to my own, that you should know the truth.”

“A traitor who will sell his country’s honour is capable of any falsehood whereby to justify himself,” he snapped savagely.

“I am no traitor,” I protested in anger.

His thin, white face relaxed into a bitterly sarcastic smile, and his lip curled in withering contempt.

“The efforts of ten years’ delicate diplomacy with Berlin have been rendered futile by your treachery or culpable negligence. Now you come to me with some lame, paltry tale or other, in an endeavour to convince me that you are neither thief nor spy! Each word of yours only aggravates your offence. I have dismissed you, and I tell you I decline to reopen the question.”

“But you have accused me of a crime, and I demand to be judged,” I cried.

“I have already judged you,” he said, after a pause, laying down his pen with a sudden calmness, and fixing his grey eyes keenly upon me.

“Yes, falsely.”

“You have come to me to prove that I have misjudged you,” he said at last, leaning back in his chair. “Very well. Let me hear your story.”

“I have no story further than what I have already told you,” I answered. “You have made a charge against me; I have come to you to refute it.”

“By what means?”

“By documentary evidence.”

“Documentary evidence!” he exclaimed. “Of what kind?”

“You will remember that I told you of the death of the only man who could speak regarding my absence from the office and my return.”

“Yes. He died mysteriously. The inquest was held yesterday;” and, taking up a letter from his table, the Earl added, “They report from Scotland Yard that an open verdict was returned, although one witness, a woman, alleged murder. Well, what was the allegation? Against yourself?” he asked, raising his grey, shaggy brows.

“No,” I said with emphasis. “I am not a murderer.”

“Then why did this woman – what’s her name? – Ella Laing,” he said, referring to the letter, “why did she allege foul play?”

“I cannot tell; but all the facts I have ascertained point to the same conclusion, although the medical evidence negatived any such suggestion.”

“Then what is your contention?”

“That the man who was my friend was a spy,” I said.

“You would shift the responsibility upon one who, being dead, can tell us nothing,” he said in a tone of reproachful contempt. “I suspected this. It was but what might have been expected.”

“But I have evidence indisputable that he was a spy,” I exclaimed excitedly. “Read this,” and I handed to him Dudley’s passport.

Spreading it out before him, he carefully adjusted his gold pince-nez, and after a little difficulty translated it. Then, without expressing any surprise, he turned it over and held the paper to the light of the window, examining the water-mark.

“Well,” he exclaimed calmly at last, “what else?”

I placed before him the crumpled sheets of foolscap whereon attempts had been made – and successfully too – to imitate my handwriting, explaining where I had discovered them. These he also examined very minutely, giving vent to a low grunt, as was habitual to him when reassured.

“Anything more?” he asked impatiently. “I can’t waste time. The outlook is too serious.”

“But you must – you shall spare time to fully investigate this mystery,” I cried. “You will remember that the dummy envelope you took from your safe bore an imitation of your private seal?”

“Yes. What of that?”

“Here is the seal with which that impression was made,” I replied in triumph, handing to him the little brass stamp. “I have had the portions of wax microscopically examined, and they are of the same wax as was used to seal the dummy.”

He took it between his thin fingers that now trembled with excitement. The production of this object was, I saw, entirely unexpected. Suddenly rising from his chair he unlocked his great safe and took therefrom the dummy envelope. Then, returning to his table, he lit a taper and carefully made an impression in wax of the seal I had given him, afterwards taking it to the light, and by the aid of a large magnifying glass compared it closely with the seal upon the dummy.

“And where did you find this seal?” he inquired, glancing across to me.

“Among the contents of the dead man’s pockets,” I answered.

“Impossible!” he retorted. “The police have possession of everything found on the man.”

“Yes, they had, but this came into my possession yesterday at the inquest.”

“How?”

I hesitated, then, determined to conceal no fact from the great statesman, I answered boldly, —

“I stole it from the table whereon it was displayed.”

“Stole it!” he echoed.

Slowly he turned the brass stamp over in his hand as if deep in thought; then, with brows knit in anger, he looked me straight in the face, exclaiming bluntly, —

“Your story is an absolute tissue of lies from beginning to end.”

His words staggered me. I had expected him to be eager to further probe the mystery, and try and elucidate the manner in which Dudley had manufactured the dummy and exchanged it for the secret convention. Instead of this he was distrustful and suspicious; indeed, he boldly accused me of attempting to wilfully mislead him and conceal the truth.

“I have told you no lies. Every word I have uttered is the truth,” I answered, with fierce indignation.

“You certainly never obtained possession of this seal in the manner in which you would have me believe, for the detectives sent to Staines had strict injunctions to search for any object that would lead them to suppose the dead man was not what he represented himself to be, and I made a special request that any seals discovered might be submitted to me for examination. If this had been in the dead man’s pockets it would have been brought to me.”

“But I tell you it was among the articles found upon him. I picked it up from the Coroner’s table, and finding it was not missed, brought it to you, rather than inform the police of our suspicions, which I understood you desired should, for the present, be kept secret.”

“I do not believe you,” he retorted angrily.

“Ask whoever searched the body, and they will no doubt remember finding the seal,” I answered.

“It is quite unnecessary,” he exclaimed.

“Unnecessary? Why?”

“Because I don’t believe one word of this elegantly romantic story of yours.”

“But I have brought you evidence in black and white that Ogle was a spy!” I cried.

“Evidence of a sort,” he answered carelessly, returning to his table and sinking into his armchair. “You have brought these things to me in order to induce me to believe that they were in the dead man’s possession instead of where they really were – in your own.”

“It is false,” I protested, flushing at his base and dogged insinuations.

“So is this elaborate so-called evidence you have brought me,” he answered.

“In what way?” I demanded.

“You wish to know,” he cried. “Well, I will tell you. First, the passport is a forged one, and was never written in St Petersburg.”

“Why?” I cried in dismay. “How can you tell?”

“Because its water-mark shows it to be English paper, whereas all Russian official paper, as this is supposed to be, is manufactured by Yaronovski, of Moscow, and bears his name.”

This fact had never occurred to me, and taking up the paper I examined the water-mark, finding, to my surprise, the name of a well-known English mill.

“Then the attempts at imitating your handwriting are quite as unsatisfactory,” he went on. “Indeed, I have no proof that all those letters and words have not been made by yourself.”

“They have not,” I protested. “You seem determined not to believe in my innocence.”

“And the seal,” he continued, heedless of my interruption. “You expected that it would be regarded as irresistible proof. Well, in the first place I do not believe it was discovered on the body, as you allege; and, secondly, even if it had been, it is no absolute proof that the dead man was the culprit.”

“Why?” I inquired eagerly.

“Because it was not with that seal that the dummy envelope was secured,” he answered slowly, at the same time handing me the two impressions, and inviting me to compare them.

This I did with breathless eagerness, by the aid of the magnifying glass, and in astonishment was compelled to admit that he spoke the truth. There were several discrepancies in the quarterings of the arms that I had not before noticed, and I saw instantly that they did not correspond with those impressed upon the envelope. The amazing worthlessness of my discoveries held me embarrassed, and I stood helpless, and in silence, as the Minister hurled at me some bitter invectives, declaring that I had come to him with an ingenious story, and evidence that might have convinced a man less shrewd.

“Take your clumsily-forged documents and your attempt to reproduce my seal, and leave me at once!” he cried, in a terrible ebullition of wrath, gathering up the objects I had brought and tossing them back to me. “Your dastardly conduct is too despicable for words; but remember that to you, and you alone, your country owes the overwhelming catastrophe that must now inevitably fall upon it.”

With these ominous words ringing in my ears I stumbled out, knowing not whither I went, and scarcely responding to the greetings of the men I knew, who regarded me in askance. The great central staircase, up which climbed the brilliantly-uniformed representatives of all civilised countries on the face of the earth whenever the Minister held his receptions, I descended with heavy heart, and crossing the grey, silent courtyard, soon found myself amid the bustle of Parliament Street.

I saw with chagrin how utterly I had failed in my endeavour to elucidate the mystery, for not only had I been unable to throw any further light upon the theft of the treaty, or the tragic end of the man I suspected, but I had actually heaped increased suspicion upon myself. On reflection, I found myself in accord with the Minister’s declaration that the passport was a forgery, and that the brass stamp was not the seal used by the spy. These facts were absolutely incontestable. The only thing remaining was the paper whereon attempts had been made to imitate my writing. I tried to explain this fact away, and clear the memory of the dead man of all suspicion, but, alas! could not bring myself to believe in his innocence. There rankled in my breast the bitter thought that he had uttered words of love to Ella, and had tried to induce her to break off her engagement to me. She herself had acknowledged on oath before the Coroner that they had quarrelled because she loved me. No. Although this passport was a clumsy imitation, and the seal had been cut without due regard to the Warnham quarterings, the plain, incontestable evidence of his forgery remained.

He was, after all, a cunning, despicable scoundrel, who had brought dishonour upon my name and ruined me both socially and financially. I found myself smiling grimly at the thought of how quickly retribution had fallen upon him. If he had died from natural causes it was but a judgment for his misdeeds; if struck down by an unknown hand it was but vengeance for his treachery towards his Queen, his country, and his bosom friend.

Heedless of where I went I walked on, called at my club, I remember, and thrust my letters into my pocket unopened; then, pursuing my way, arrived home late in the afternoon. As I entered, Juckes handed me a note from Ella, telling me that they had left Staines owing to the tragic affair, and asking me to call that evening at Pont Street, adding that she wished to see me upon a very important matter. For a long time I sat alone, smoking and thinking, trying to devise some means by which I could bring the Earl to believe in my loyalty; but at last, in desperation, I rose, dressed, and took a cab to Mrs Laing’s.

The house was not large, but well ordered, exquisitely furnished, and there was about everything an air of elegant refinement that betokened wealth, taste and culture. It was nearly seven when I arrived, and I was gratified to learn that, with the exception of Beck, who came later, I was the only guest. Dinner was a much more stately meal at Pont Street than it had been at Staines, where very often we sat down in flannels, and I was not sorry when it was over, and I found myself free to talk alone with Ella. It was plain, from the dark rings about her eyes, that she had passed a sleepless night, and that her terrible and mysterious secret bore her down beneath its oppressive weight. Yet she had greeted me with the same joyous smile, the same hearty hand-shake as of old, and I had, while sitting at dinner chatting with her, felt myself wondering how I could ever have brought myself to utter such bitter reproaches and recriminations as I had done on the previous day. Her kiss, now that we were alone, thrilled me; her speech, soft and musical, held me enraptured by its charm.