He stopped; a suggestion of pain creeping into her expression, as if,
behind wonderment, she was conscious of something being rudely torn,
wrenched in her inmost being, held him. His face grew set; the nails of
his closed fingers cut his palms. But the laugh returned to his lips,
the luster to his eyes.

"Or have been!" he repeated. "A good many people have their pasts. Can
you imagine what mine may have been?"

But she scarcely followed his words; she did not think, she could not;
she seemed to stand in a hateful dream! Looking at him--the torn evening
clothes!--his face, pale, different! Listening to him!--to what--?

"A convict!" said the man. "Yes; that's what I was. Had been in jails,
jails! And was sent out of the country, years ago, transported. But time
went by and the convict thought he might safely come back--boldly--with
impunity. The years and--circumstances had altered him--wrought great
changes. He felt compelled to return--why, is of no moment!--believed
himself secure in so doing--and was--until chance led him out of his
accustomed way--to new walks--new faces--where lay the danger--the
ambush, into which he, who thought himself strong, like a weak fool,
walked--or was led--blindly." He caught himself up with a laugh. "But
what is this to you? Enough, the convict found himself recognized, his
identity thoroughly established."

He waited; still she was silent; the little hands clasped tightly the
heavy drapery that moved as if she were putting part of her weight on
it. Her expression showed still that she had not yet had time to
comprehend; that for her what he said remained, even now, but words,
confused, inexplicable. A strange sequel to a strange night, a night