She drew her hand away quickly, and the flush on her haggard face
deepened.

"If you will honour me with your confidence, Madame," he insisted.

The kindly words, the courtesy of the man, went to the poor creature's
heart. She fell back upon the sofa and with her face buried in her arms
she sobbed out her heart for a minute or two. The man waited quite
patiently. He had seen many women weep these days, and had dried many a
tear through deeds of valour and of self-sacrifice, which were for ever
recorded in the hearts of those whom he had succoured.

When this poor woman had succeeded in recovering some semblance of self-
control, she turned her wan, tear-stained face to him and said simply:

"My name is Madeleine Lannoy, Monsieur. My husband was killed during the
emeutes at Versailles, whilst defending the persons of the Queen and of
the royal children against the fury of the mob. When I was a girl I had
the misfortune to attract the attentions of a young doctor named Jean
Paul Marat. You have heard of him, Monsieur?"

The other nodded.

"You know him, perhaps," she continued, "for what he is: the most cruel
and revengeful of men. A few years ago he threw up his lucrative
appointment as Court physician to Monseigneur le Comte d'Artois, and
gave up the profession of medicine for that of journalist and
politician. Politician! Heaven help him! He belongs to the most
bloodthirsty section of revolutionary brigands. His creed is pillage,