Years passed.
I was travelling one dull English day from London to Glasgow. In the railway carriage toward night I fell into desultory talk with a sad uneasy looking man who shared the compartment with me. At some turn in the conversation he told me his name was O'Fallon.
The worn copy of Browning seemed almost to take form in my hand—and Victoria—her dream, her hair, her enchanting laugh.
For moments I was too dazed to speak. Then I managed to ask if by any chance he was related to a girl Victoria O'Fallon. He stared at me in silence, while a look of hatred and despair distorted his face.
Finally in a choked voice he breathed rather than spoke—
I am just out of prison because of Victoria O'Fallon—she was my niece. I sent her to Paris. She was on the stage, just one night—I struck her—she fell on a chair—her back. She's dead now.
He gazed vaguely out into the gathering darkness.
Then he seemed to remember me.
There was a French Count he began, but his voice sank into silence.