possession. "But I did not kill him. I let him go. He was so clever--
cleverer than you will know how to be. She said to me--my wife said to
me, when she thought I had killed him, 'Why did you not fight him? Any
man would have fought him.' That was her view. She was right--not to
kill without fighting. That is why I did not kill you at once when I
knew."

"When you knew what?" Stolphe was staring at the madman.

"When I knew you were you. First I saw that ring--that ring on your
hand. It was my wife's. I gave it to her the first New Year after we
married. I saw it on your hand when you were drinking at the bar next
door. Then I asked them your name. I knew it. I had read your letters
to my wife--"

"Your wife once on a time!"

Jean Jacques' eyes swam red. "My wife always and always--and at the last
there in my arms." Stolphe temporized. "I never knew you. She did not
leave you because of me. She came to me because--because I was there for
her to come to, and you weren't there. Why do you want to do me any
harm?" He still must be careful, for undoubtedly the man was mad--his
eyes were too bright.

"You were the death of her," answered Jean Jacques, leaning forward.
"She was most ill-ah, who would not have been sorry for her! She was
poor. She had been to you--but to live with a woman day by day, but to
be by her side when the days are done, and then one morning to say, 'Au
revoir till supper' and then go and never come back, and to take money
and rings that belonged to her! . . . That was her death--that was