"He took them first. Then he sold the lands."

"Oh, tell me no more! He is wasting and destroying. It is his nature. First he took the jewels. How long ago?"

"Six months ago."

"He has had the jewels," she said. "He has had them for six months." Her face became hard and drawn as with pain; her smiling mouth became hard; the light died out of her eyes; she became suddenly twenty years older. I wondered what this change might mean. You will think that I was a very simple person not to guess more from all these indications. She pushed back her chair and sprang to her feet; she walked over to the window and looked out upon the cold street, in which there were flying flakes of snow. Then she came back and stood before the fire. "You can go," she said, harshly, not looking me in the face. "You can go," she repeated, forgetting her proffered hospitality of tea. "About that woman, Jack, you may find her yet. Many a wicked woman has been goaded by wrongs intolerable to confess her wickedness. I think you may find her. It will be too late to save Molly's fortune; but when it is all spent there will be a chance for you, Jack." She turned upon me a wan and sad smile. "Happy Molly!" she added, laying her hand upon my arm with the sweet graciousness that she could command. "Jack," she added, "I think we may pity that poor wretch who personated Molly. It was perhaps out of love for a worthless man. Women are so. It is not worth, or virtue, or ability, or character that awakens love and keeps it alive. A woman, Jack, loves a man. There is nothing more to be said. If he is a good man so much the better. If not—still she loves him." She sighed heavily. "What do you sailors know about women? Virtue, fame, and fortune do not make love, nor—Jack, which is a hard thing for you to believe—does all the wickedness in the world destroy love. A woman may be goaded into revenge, but it makes her all the more unhappy—because love remains."

I went away, musing on this woman who sometimes seemed so true and earnest with all her fashion and affectations. For, as she spoke about love, the tears stood in her eyes as if she was speaking of her own case. But I never suspected her; I never had the least suspicion of her as the mysterious woman.

I took cars into the city and went to my cousin's shop, where there were half-a-dozen gentlemen talking volubly about new books, among them my friend who had taken me to the gaming house and to the tavern. When he saw me he slipped aside. "Mr. Pentecrosse," he said, "your cousin reminds me that I once told him what I could learn concerning an unfortunate poet named Semple. If you would like to see him I think I can take you to him."

I thanked him, and said that I would willingly have speech of Mr. Semple.

So he led me down little Britain, and so by a maze of streets to a place called Turnagain Lane. He stopped at an open door. The street in the waning light looked squalid, and the house mean.

"The darling of Parnassus," he said, "lies in the top chamber. You will find him there, unless I mistake not, because he cannot conveniently go abroad."

So saying, he left me, and I climbed up the dark and dirty staircase, some of the steps of which had been taken away for firewood, and presently found myself at the top of the last flight before a closed door. I knocked. A faint voice bade me come in.