be kept a secret. It was bound to become known, and then what would be said of Edith for harbouring a criminal—a low grade of criminal: burglar, sneak-thief, pickpocket? No doubt the story would reach Kharkoff. Léontine herself might tell him, and he would remember how I had tried to relieve him of his winnings that day at the races, when he had caught me and got me deported to Cayenne. I was a marked man. My picture was in the French Rogue's Gallery and my head measurements in the Bertillon records.
To think that Edith should fall heiress to all this! Edith, that angel of a woman. The very thought of her sent a glow through me. Angel she might be, and as such far above all earthly shame and suffering. But she was a woman, too—and such a woman. My heart was full of her, and my mind too; and as I stood there in the long window, staring into the dark shadows of the trees, I saw the sweet, thoughtful face with the clear, steady eyes and sensitive mouth. Such a woman was meant for love and happiness and peace of soul in which to accomplish the work of her rich gifts; not to suffer the sneers and evil criticisms of an evil world.
Suddenly I knew why Léontine's feverish kisses had left me cold. I knew why my gratitude to John was turning slowly to a cold disgust. It had not taken long, I thought, with a sort of joyful pain.
In a rage I turned back to the table to torture myself afresh with Léontine's letter. The girl was right. So be it, she should have her way. I would go with her to the ends of the world.
Such a woman as Edith was not for me. Léon-
