"You found the prey at the right moment, Bertram. Poor forsaken woman! You took it; you lost it; it falls into your hands again—broken unto death."
"Unto death!" Bertram echoed.
I related to him my adventure in Boulogne; and when I came to Baker's end, and his bigamy, Bertram exclaimed—
"The villain! My dear Q. M., I loved—I do love her; she might have been my wife. The villain!"
"You say she is with you, Bertram. Where? Can I see her?"
"You cannot, she's very ill So ill, I doubt——"
"And you are here, Bertram?"
"Her uncle—Sharp—is with her by this time. She implored me not to be in the way. There would be a row, you know, and I hate rows."
It was Bertram to the last. He hated rows! I suddenly turned upon him with an idea that flashed through my mind.
"Bertram, you owe this poor woman some reparation. You love her, you say—or have loved her."