side. He was a dark, heavy-browed, strongly-built man, dressed in a shabby old naval officer’s uniform. His manner — strikingly resolute and self-contained —

you have given me no opportunity of setting you right.”“In what way have I been wrong?”“You have been too hasty and too confident about yourself and about me. You have entirely misunderstood me. I am grieved to distress you, but for your sake I must speak plainly. I am your friend always, Mr. Wardour. I can never be your wife.”He mechanically repeated the last words. He seemed to doubt whether he had heard her aright.“You can never be my wife?”“Never!”“Why?”There was no answer. She was incapable of telling him a falsehood. She was ashamed to tell him the truth.He stooped over her, and suddenly possessed himself of her hand. Holding her hand firmly, he stooped a little lower; searching for the signs which might answer him in her face. His own face darkened slowly while he looked. He was beginning to suspect her; and he acknowledged it in his next words.“Something has changed you toward me, Clara. Somebody has influenced you against me. Is it — you force me to ask the question — is it some other man?”“You have no right to ask me that.”He went on without noticing what she had said to him.“Has that other man come between you and me? I speak plainly on my side. Speak plainly on yours.”“I have spoken. I have nothing more to say.”There was a pause. She saw the warning light which told of the fire within him, growing brighter and brighter in his eyes. She felt his grasp strengthening on her hand. He appealed to her for the last time.“Reflect,” he said, “reflect before it is too late. Your silence will not serve you. If you persist in not answering me, I shall take your silence as a confession. Do you hear me?”“I hear you.”“Clara Burnham! I am not to be trifled with. Clara B