he stood once more in a queer, climbing, sunbathed street of
Gibraltar looking out across that blue ribbon of the Straits to
where the African coast lay hidden in the haze.

"I never knew," he said aloud. And one meeting this man who
hurried along and muttered to himself must have supposed him to
be mad. "I never knew. Oh, God! if I had only known."

But he was one of those to whom knowledge comes as a bitter
aftermath. When his regiment had received orders to move from
the Rock, and he had informed Inez of his departure, she had
turned aside, just as Zahara had done; scornfully and in silence.
Because of his disbelief in her he had guarded his heart against
this beautiful Spanish girl who (as he realized too late) had
brought him the only real happiness he had ever known. Often she
had told him of her brother, Miguel, who would kill her--would
kill them both--if he so much as suspected their meetings; of her
affianced husband, absent in Tunis, whose jealousy knew no
bounds.

He had pretended to believe, had even wanted to believe; but the
witchery of the girl's presence removed, he had laughed--at
himself and at Inez. She was playing the Great Game, skilfully,
exquisitely. When he was gone--there would soon be someone else.
Yet he had never told her that he doubted. He had promised many
things--and had left her.

She died by her own hand on the night of his departure.

Now, as a wandering taxi came into view: "Inez!" he moaned--"I