question was one which he had been expecting, one which he had
already asked himself many times, yet he was unprepared with any
definite reply.

"I wish I could answer you, Andrew," his friend confessed. "As a
matter of fact, I can't. I can only speak of the impression she
left upon me, and you are about the only person breathing to whom
I could speak of that."

Wilmore nodded sympathetically. He knew that, man of the world
though Francis Ledsam appeared, he was nevertheless a highly
imaginative person, something of an idealist as regards women,
unwilling as a rule to discuss them, keeping them, in a general
way, outside his daily life.

"Go ahead, old fellow," he invited. "You know I understand."

"She left the impression upon me," Francis continued quietly, "of
a woman who had ceased to live. She was young, she was beautiful,
she had all the gifts--culture, poise and breeding--but she had
ceased to live. We sat with a marble table between us, and a
few feet of oil-covered floor. Those few feet, Andrew, were like
an impassable gulf. She spoke from the shores of another world.
I listened and answered, spoke and listened again. And when she
told her story, she went. I can't shake off the effect she had
upon me, Andrew. I feel as though I had taken a step to the
right or to the left over the edge of the world."

Andrew Wilmore studied his friend thoughtfully.