His words were utterly without offense. A melancholy smile played on his
lips. Again Hagar bowed, but did not speak.

Telford went on. "We are enemies, and yet I have done you no harm. You
have injured me, have insulted me, and yet I do not resent it, which is
strange, as my friends in a wilder country would tell you."

Hagar was impressed, affected. "How have I injured you? By painting
these?"

"The injury is this: I loved a woman and wronged her, but not beyond
reparation. Years passed. I saw her and loved her still. She might still
have loved me, but another man came in. It was you. That was one injury.
Then"--He took up a candle and held it to the sketch of the discovery.
"This is perfect in its art and chivalry. It glorifies the girl. That is
right." He held the candle above the second sketch. "This," he said, "is
admirable as art and fiction. But it is fiction. I have no hope that you
will change it. I think you would make a mistake to do so. You could not
have the situation, if the truth were painted. Your audience will not have
the villain as the injured man."

"Were you the injured man?"

Telford put the candle in Hagar's hand. Then he quickly took off his coat,
waistcoat and collar and threw back his shirt from his neck behind.

"The bullet wound I received on that occasion was in the back," he said.
"The other man tried to play the assassin. Here is the scar. He posed as
the avenger, the hero, and the gentleman. I was called the coward and the