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“In the early morning I went back to London. I had fever on me–and was delirious. I dare say I should have killed myself if I had not been so used to weapons–they and I were too old friends, I suppose–I can’t explain. It was a long while before I was up and about. Dalton nursed me through it; his great heavy moustache had grown quite white. We never mentioned her; what was the good? There were things to settle of course, the lawyer–this was unspeakably distasteful to me. I told him it was to be as she wished, but the fellow would come to me, with his–there, I don’t want to be unkind. I wished him to say it was my fault, but he said–I remember his smile now–he said, that was impossible, would be seen through, talked of collusion–I don’t understand these things, and what’s more, I can’t bear them, they are–dirty.

“Two years later, when I had come back to London, after the Russo-Turkish war, I received a letter from her. I have it here.” He took an old, yellow sheet of paper out of a leathern pockethook, spread it in his fingers, and sat staring at it. For some minutes he did not speak.

“In the autumn of that same year she died in childbirth. He had deserted her. Fortunately for him, he was killed on the Indian frontier, that very year. If she had lived she would have been thirty-two next June; not a great age…. I know I am what they call a crank; doctors will tell you that you can’t be cured of a bad illness, and be the same man again. If you are bent, to force yourself straight must leave you weak in another place. I must and will think well of women–everything done, and everything said against them is a stone on her dead body. Could you sit, and listen to it?” As though driven by his own question, he rose, and paced up and down. He came back to the seat at last.

“That, sir, is the reason of my behaviour this afternoon, and again this evening. You have been so kind, I wanted!–wanted to tell you. She had a little daughter–Lucy has her now. My friend Dalton is dead; there would have been no difficulty about money, but, I am sorry to say, that he was swindled–disgracefully. It fell to me to administer his affairs–he never knew it, but he died penniless; he had trusted some wretched fellows–had an idea they would make his fortune. As I very soon found, they had ruined him. It was impossible to let Lucy–such a dear woman–bear that burden. I have tried to make provision; but, you see,” he took hold of my sleeve, “I, too, have not been fortunate; in fact, it’s difficult to save a great deal out of L 190 a year; but the capital is perfectly safe–and I get L 47, 10s. a quarter, paid on the nail. I have often been tempted to reinvest at a greater rate of interest, but I’ve never dared. Anyway, there are no debts–I’ve been obliged to make a rule not to buy what I couldn’t pay for on the spot…. Now I am really plaguing you–but I wanted to tell you–in case-anything should happen to me.” He seemed to take a sudden scare, stiffened, twisted his moustache, and muttering, “Your great kindness! Shall never forget!” turned hurriedly away.

He vanished; his footsteps, and the tap of his stick grew fainter and fainter. They died out. He was gone. Suddenly I got up and hastened after him. I soon stopped–what was there to say?

VIII

The following day I was obliged to go to Nice, and did not return till midnight. The porter told me that Jules le Ferrier had been to see me. The next morning, while I was still in bed, the door was opened, and Jules appeared. His face was very pale; and the moment he stood still drops of perspiration began coursing down his cheeks.