Eh?—stole from me! What do you say?
Answer!"

Again there was something so threatening
in his manner, that I half moved back,
as if to defend myself.

"Oh, don't be afraid," he said; "we
dare not do these things in this place. Here
kellner, come here, will you! Bring some
red wine here, strong and good, and don't
be an hour, with your 'V'la, monsieur,'
and all that humbug. Come, sit down, Mr.
Austen; you may as well; I am not going
to be violent, so you needn't be afraid. I
want to let you know something which you
ought to know."

"Grainger," I said, "when all that took
place, you had your opportunity. I met
you fairly and——"

"Met me fairly!" he repeated, his eyes
dropping on me with a flash, " can you
say that?" Then he laughed. " My good
friend that is all so long ago. An old story
like that must not be exhumed. Let it
rot away in the ground. Dead leaves, my
boy. If you don't rake 'em up, I promise
you I shan't. There. Come! let us have
something, as earnest. You shall pay for
me, who was the loser, and I think the
injured man."

Something in this phrase struck me, and
I felt there was some truth in what he
said. He was the defeated party; I was
the victor, and ought to be generous.
"What shall it be," I said, " champagne?"
"Do you take me for an American?"
he said, with a laugh. "No,
sir; cognac. Now let us talk. I have
forgiven and forgotten all that—though
it ruined me. She had a sort of infatuation
over me, that girl—I mean, Mrs.
Austen. If she had come here I would
have followed her. I'd have played my
body and soul, that is if I had seen a
chance. You had it all your own way.
How does she look—does she hate me?
Come! And yet a good deal is on her
gentle head. This is my life now, poor
me; a 'hell,' to many others. You saw
what I was then, a gentleman, at least well
off, respected—own that! Well, I had to
leave the army; I did something I ought
not to have done, from sheer desperation.
Yes, I did, and sank lower and lower, and
all this was your joint work; but I don't
want to blame you. By Jove, it is I who
am raking up the dead leaves after all!
Ah! here's the cognac."

I felt a pity for him. There was truth
in what he said. Since you, Dora, had been
saved from him, all these troubles had
come upon him. He had grown desperate;
he was at least privileged to speak as he
pleased, and have that slight consolation.
I saw, too, that he was altered. At that
time he was considered by the women a
good-looking man, his face having a little
of that rude gauntness which is not unpleasing.
He had large eyes, and a black
irregular beard and moustache. Now he
had grown careless in his dress. I knew
how much that portended, and felt a deep
pity for him.

"Grainger," I said, " it was hard for
you, for I know you loved her. But I
declare solemnly here, that my loving her
had nothing to do with it, and you know
yourself, Grainger, the marriage with you
could not have been for her happiness after
that business——"

His brow contracted. " I know what
you mean," he said. " That was false, false
in everything. False, as I sit here, and
hope to be—well I have not much hope of
that."

"They said it was true," I said; " but
even to have such a rumour, and a fair
innocent young girl, admit yourself, Grainger,
it could not be."

He answered in a low voice, " It was
all false, a lie, an invention. There was
the sting. Of course, I could not prove it;
but suppose it untrue, what punishment
would you say was enough for those who
did me so horrid an injury—would a whole
life be too long to devote to punishing the
doer of such an injury?"

"I suppose you mean me?" I said.

"I did mean you then," he said. " I
suppose, if there had been opportunity, of
course I could have killed you. But that
is all over, all past and gone. Nothing
could make Roly Poly as he was before.
The egg-shell is broken, and the yolk run
out. So tell me about yourself, and about
her. What brings you here?"

There was something so frank, so generous,
so valorous in this way of taking the
thing, that with an involuntary motion I
put out my hand and grasped his. Shall I
say, too, I felt a sudden twinge of conscience;
and had all along a dim foreboding
that the story might not have been
true, or at least, have got its colouring of
truth, from what might have been interested
motives on my side? I was too
much concerned, perhaps, to be impartial,
and if he was innocent, then some share in
this work might be laid to my account.
What was plainly my duty was to try and
compensate in some way, at least by kindness—
for I had not much else at my command—
for so cruel a wrong as this. I complied