cold lands, and remained faithful to a huge old-fashioned mantel.

Presently Denzil faced him, having closed the door. "I said I'd been
near to your family and you didn't believe me. Sit down, please to, and
I'll tell you my story."

Seating himself with a little curt laugh, Tarboe waved a hand as though
to say: "Go ahead. I'm ready."

It was difficult for Denzil to begin. He walked up and down the room,
muttering and shaking his head. Presently, however, he made the Sign of
the Cross upon himself, and, leaning against the wall, and opposite to
Tarboe, he began the story he had told Carnac.

His description of his dead fiancee had flashes of poetry and
excruciating touches of life:

"She had no mother, and there was lots of things she didn't know because
of that--ah, plenty! She had to learn, and she brought on her own
tragedy by not knowing that men, even when good to look at, can't be
trusted; that every place, even in the woods and the fields where every
one seems safe to us outdoor people, ain't safe--but no. So she trusted,
and then one day--"

For the next five minutes the words poured from him in moroseness. He
drew a picture of the lonely wood, of the believing credulous girl and
the masterful, intellectual, skilful man. In the midst of it Tarboe
started. The description of the place and of the man was familiar. He
had a vision of a fair young girl encompassed by clanger; he saw her in
the man's arms; the man's lips to hers, and--