hatred. There was something more. The envelope she had found that day on
the moor was addressed to that woman's husband, from whom she had been
separated--no one knew why--for years. What complication and fresh misery
might be here?

"You may keep the ring," she said.

"Thank you," was his reply, and he put it on his finger, looking down at
it with an enigmatical expression. "And is there nothing more?"

She willfully misconstrued his question. She took the torn pieces of
envelope from her pocket and handed them to him. "These are yours," she
said.

He raised his eyebrows. "Thank you again. But I do not see their value.
One could almost think you were a detective, you are so armed."

"Who is he? What is he to you?" she asked.

"He is an unlucky man, like myself, and my best friend. He helped me out
of battle, murder and sudden death more than once, and we shared the same
blanket times without number."

"Where is he now?" she said in a whisper, not daring to look at him lest
she should show how disturbed she was.

"He is in a hospital in New York."

"Has he no friends?"