Remorse for what? I burned to ask a hundred questions, but, fearing to excite him, I shut my lips.

“You are in love with her?” he asked.

I nodded. It was a reply as abrupt as his demand. At that moment Deschamps laughed quietly behind me. I turned round quickly, but she lay still; though she had come to, the fire in her eyes was quenched, and I anticipated no immediate difficulty with her.

“I knew that night that you were in love with her,” Sir Cyril continued. “Has she told you about — about me?”

“No,” I said.

“I have done her a wrong, Foster — her and another. But she will tell you. I can’t talk now. I’m going —