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“Up to this time he had never mentioned his home or the names of any of his people, nor had he offered any explanation of his choice of Africa as a hunting ground, nor did he ever seek to learn my own impressions regarding his self-imposed exile (it was really exile, for he never hunted a single day while he was with me), except to ask me one morning in a casual way, whether anything he had said in his delirium had made me think the less of him–all of which I laughed at, never mentioning, of course, what I had been obliged to hear.

“One night, when a tropical storm of unusual severity was passing, I found him sealing a letter at my table with the aid of a lantern held close. Presently he got up and began pacing the floor, seemingly in great agitation; then he reached over, picked up the letter from the table, lighted one end of it in the blaze of the lantern, dropped it to the floor, waited until it was entirely consumed, and then put his foot on the ashes.

“‘Rather a waste of time, wasn’t it?’ I said with a laugh.

“‘Yes, all of it has been a waste of time–and my life with it. Now and then I write these letters. They’re always burned in the end. No use–nothing to gain. Yes, waste of time. There are some things in the world that no man ought ever to ask forgiveness for.’ He threw himself into a chair and went on:–

“‘You never went crazy mad over a woman, did you? No–you’re not built that way. I am. She was different from the women I had met. She was not of my people–she was English. We met first in Brussels; then I followed her to Vienna. For six months she was free to do as she pleased. We lived the life–well, you know! Then her husband returned.’

“‘Oh, she was married!’ I remarked casually.

“‘Yes, and to a man you would have thought she would have been true to, although he was nearly twice her age. I knew all this–knew when I started in to make her love me–as a matter of pride first–as a boy walks on thin ice, believing he can cross in safety. Perhaps she had some such idea about me. Then the crust gave way, and we were both in the depths. The affair had lasted about six months–all the time her husband was gone. Then I either had to face the consequences or leave Vienna. To have done the first meant ruin to her; the last meant ruin to me. It had not been her fault–it had been mine. He sent me word that he would shoot me at sight, and he meant it. But the madness had not worked out of me yet. She clung to me like a frightened child in her agony, begging me not to leave her–not to meet her husband; to go somewhere–suddenly, as if I had been ordered away by my government; to make no reply to her husband, who, so far, could prove nothing–somewhere, later on, when he was again on a mission, we could meet.

“‘You have known me now for some time–the last month intimately. Do I look like a coward and a cur? Well, I am both. That very night I saw him coming toward my quarters in search of me. Did I face him? No. I stooped down behind a fence and hid until he passed.

“‘That summer, some months later, we met in Lucerne. She had left him in Venice and he was to meet her in Paris. Two days later he walked into the small hotel where she had stopped and the end came.

“‘But I took her with me this time. One of the porters who knew him and knew her helped; and we boarded the night train for Paris without his finding us. I had then given up about everything in life; I was away without leave, had lost touch with my world–with everybody–except my agents, who sent me money. Then began a still hunt, he following us and we shifting from place to place, until we hid ourselves in a little town in Northern Italy.