Suddenly there was a movement. The fluttering creature had found the
flame and fallen dazed upon the table. Almost in the same second Monck
stooped forward swiftly and silently, and crushed the thing with his
closed fist.

Stella drew a quick breath. Her eyes were wide open again. She sat up.

"Why did you do that?"

He looked at her again, a smouldering gleam in his eyes. "It was on its
way to destruction," he said.

"And so you helped it!"

He nodded. "Yes. Long-drawn-out agonies don't attract me."

Stella laughed softly, yet with a touch of mockery. "Oh, it was an act
of mercy, was it? You didn't look particularly merciful. In fact, that
is about the last quality I should have attributed to you."

"I don't think," Monck said very quietly, "that you are in a position to
judge me." She leaned forward. He saw that her bosom was heaving. "That
is your prerogative, isn't it?" she said. "I--I am just the prisoner at
the bar, and--like the moth--I have been condemned--without mercy."

He raised his brows sharply. For a second he had the look of a man who
has been stabbed in the back. Then with a swift effort he pulled himself
together.