WITH such a man as Miserrimus Dexter, and with such a purpose as I had in view, no half-confidences were possible. I must either risk the most unreserved acknowledgment of the interests that I really had at stake, or I must make the best excuse that occurred to me for abandoning my contemplated experiment at the last moment. In my present critical situation, no such refuge as a middle course lay before me—even if I had been inclined to take it. As things were, I ran risks, and plunged headlong into my own affairs at starting.

“Thus far, you know little or nothing about me, Mr. Dexter,” I said. “You are, as I believe, quite unaware that my husband and I are not living together at the present time.”

“Is it necessary to mention your husband?” he asked, coldly, without looking up from his embroidery, and without pausing in his work.

“It is absolutely necessary,” I answered. “I can explain myself to you in no other way.”

He bent his head, and sighed resignedly.

“You and your husband are not living together at the present time,” he resumed. “Does that mean that Eustace has left you?”

“He has left me, and has gone abroad.”

“Without any necessity for it?”

“Without the least necessity.”

“Has he appointed no time for his return to you?”

“If he persevere in his present resolution, Mr. Dexter, Eustace will never return to me.”

For the first time he raised his head from his embroidery—with a sudden appearance of interest.

“Is the quarrel so serious as that?” he asked. “Are you free of each other, pretty Mrs. Valeria, by common consent of both parties?”

The tone in which he put the question was not at all to my liking. The look he fixed on me was a look which unpleasantly suggested that I had trusted myself alone with him, and that he might end in taking advantage of it. I reminded him quietly, by my manner more than by my words, of the respect which he owed to me.

“You are entirely mistaken,” I said. “There is no anger—there is not even a misunderstanding between us. Our parting has cost bitter sorrow, Mr. Dexter, to him and to me.”

He submitted to be set right with ironical resignation. “I am all attention,” he said, threading his needle. “Pray go on; I won’t interrupt you again.” Acting on this invitation, I told him the truth about my husband and myself quite unreservedly, taking care, however, at the same time, to put Eustace’s motives in the best light that they would bear. Miserrimus Dexter dropped his embroidery on his lap, and laughed softly to himself, with an impish enjoyment of my poor little narrative, which set every nerve in me on edge as I looked at him.

“I see nothing to laugh at,” I said, sharply.

His beautiful blue eyes rested on me with a look of innocent surprise.

“Nothing to laugh at,” he repeated, “in such an exhibition of human folly as you have just described?” His expression suddenly changed his face darkened and hardened very strangely. “Stop!” he cried, before I could answer him. “There can be only one reason for you’re taking it as seriously as you do. Mrs. Valeria! you are fond of your husband.”

“Fond of him isn’t strong enough to express it,” I retorted. “I love him with my whole heart.”

Miserrimus Dexter stroked his magnificent beard, and contemplatively repeated my words. “You love him with your whole heart? Do you know why?”

“Because I can’t help it,” I answered, doggedly.

He smiled satirically, and went on with his embroidery. “Curious!” he said to himself; “Eustace’s first wife loved him too. There are some men whom the women all like, and there are other men whom the women never care for. Without the least reason for it in either case. The one man is just as good as the other; just as handsome, as agreeable, as honorable, and as high in rank as the other. And yet for Number One they will go through fire and water, and for Number Two they won’t so much as turn their heads to look at him. Why? They don’t know themselves—as Mrs. Valeria has just said! Is there a physical reason for it? Is there some potent magnetic emanation from Number One which Number Two doesn’t possess? I must investigate this when I have the time, and when I find myself in the humor.” Having so far settled the question to his own entire satisfaction, he looked up at me again. “I am still in the dark about you and your motives,” he said. “I am still as far as ever from understanding what your interest is in investigating that hideous tragedy at Gleninch. Clever Mrs. Valeria, please take me by the hand, and lead me into the light. You’re not offended with me are you? Make it up; and I will give you this pretty piece of embroidery when I have done it. I am only a poor, solitary, deformed wretch, with a quaint turn of mind; I mean no harm. Forgive me! indulge me! enlighten me!”

He resumed his childish ways; he recovered his innocent smile, with the odd little puckers and wrinkles accompanying it at the corners of his eyes. I began to doubt whether I might not have been unreasonably hard on him. I penitently resolved to be more considerate toward his infirmities of mind and body during the remainder of my visit.

“Let me go back for a moment, Mr. Dexter, to past times at Gleninch,” I said. “You agree with me in believing Eustace to be absolutely innocent of the crime for which he was tried. Your evidence at the Trial tells me that.”

He paused over his work, and looked at me with a grave and stern attention which presented his face in quite a new light.

“That is our opinion,” I resumed. “But it was not the opinion of the Jury. Their verdict, you remember, was Not Proven. In plain English, the Jury who tried my husband declined to express their opinion, positively and publicly, that he was innocent. Am I right?”

Instead of answering, he suddenly put his embroidery back in the basket, and moved the machinery of his chair, so as to bring it close by mine.
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