Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire. ‘Your mystery lady, I mean. She twisted to meet him and folded into his embrace. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus. ‘And that Suzanne, the sister of my cousin the vicomte, must choose between Monsieur Charvill and her brother. They were true noblemen, men of the court. ” Her heart had warmed toward him. She had no inkling of that insupportable wrong.
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