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ask you what you know about me.”
    She looked at him with a rather piteous vagueness. Her mind was so full of Jim that it was very difficult to think about anyone else. For the moment, Basil Stevens was as impersonal to her as the telegraph boy who brings a message of disaster.
    He repeated his question.
    â€œWhat do you know about me, Miss Cameron?”
    She forced herself to consider—because he would not ask her such a thing unless it had somehow a bearing upon what was happening to Jim. She said in a hesitating way,
    â€œI don’t know..… I met you at the Harrisons’.… You’re an engineer, aren’t you?”
    He nodded.
    â€œAn engineer may have connections with many countries. I have connections with Russia. Did you know that?”
    Laura said, “No.”
    Her hands lay in her lap; they held one another tightly. Her eyes looked steadily at Basil Stevens.
    â€œHow have you heard—this—about Jim?”
    He shrugged his shoulders very slightly.
    â€œI have just told you that I have a connection with Russia.”
    A little colour sprang into her cheeks.
    â€œHow do you know—that is true?”
    A curious look passed over his face.
    â€œMy dear Miss Cameron, I should certainly not have come to you with a piece of hearsay gossip.”
    â€œHow can you prove it?”
    He put his hand into an inner pocket and took out a pocket-book, which he laid upon his knee. Very deliberately he opened it and took out an envelope, which he handed to Laura.
    She took it, and sat there looking at it. It was a square white envelope with her name written on it in a strange hand: “Miss Laura Cameron”—just that and nothing more.
    â€œWhat is it?” she said in a bewildered voice.
    â€œThere is a letter from Mackenzie inside.”
    Laura’s hand tightened on the letter.
    â€œIt’s not his writing.”
    â€œThe letter is inside. He was allowed to write to you, but”—he shrugged again—“they don’t supply envelopes in prison.”
    Very slowly Laura tore open the envelope. She tore it without looking at it, and, still without looking, she drew out the enclosure. Then her eyes went to it—quickly. It was a letter, and it was from Jim, but it was written in a pencil scrawl on a crumpled half sheet. She saw her name, and the words that followed it: “Laura—they’re letting me say good-bye.” And then she couldn’t see any more, because there was a darkness between her and the page. She looked up, her eyes wide, and remained like that whilst she drew half a dozen difficult breaths.
    Basil Stevens got up and walked to the window, where he stood with his back to her, looking out at the fog.
    When Laura could see again, she went on reading Jim Mackenzie’s letter:
    â€œThey are letting me say good-bye. I’m to be shot to-morrow. It will be over by the time you get this. I’m making you unhappy, and I’m cursing myself for it. I hope you won’t be unhappy for longer than you can help. I don’t want you to be unhappy about me. You’ve made me gloriously happy. I didn’t know that there was anyone like you in the world. We’ve loved each other very much. No one’s going to take that away from me. You know how much I love you. I can’t say the things that I would like to say—I can’t get them into words. I don’t want you to wear black for me and be unhappy. Good-bye, my darling.
    Your
    Jim.”

CHAPTER III
    Laura sat for a long time with the letter in her hand. The words had left the paper and were in her heart. She could hear Jim’s voice saying them to her. It said them over and over again. It went on and on.
    Then there was a movement by the window. Basil Stevens returned to his chair.
    Laura came back. She stopped hearing Jim’s voice, and she saw her own hand with the letter in it, and, a little farther down, the folds of her silver