"And so," concluded the teller of the tale, "that is the story. This man was perfectly innocent of any wrong, a victim of malice on the one hand and of injustice on the other."
"Is that the end of the yarn?" asked the colonel.
"Who in life knows what the end of anything is? This is not a story out of a book." Courtlandt accepted a fresh cigar from the box which Rao passed to him, and dropped his dead weed into the ash-bowl.
"Has he given up?" asked Abbott, his voice strangely unfamiliar in his own ears.
"A man can struggle just so long against odds, then he wins or becomes broken. Women are not logical; generally they permit themselves to be guided by impulse rather than by reason. This man I am telling you about was proud; perhaps too proud. It is a shameful fact, but he ran away. True, he wrote letter after letter, but all these were returned unopened. Then he stopped."
"A woman would a good deal rather believe circumstantial evidence than not. Humph!" The colonel primed his pipe and relighted it. "She couldn't have been worth much."
"Worth much!" cried Abbott. "What do you imply by that?"
"No man will really give up a woman who is really worth while, that is, of course, admitting that your man, Courtlandt, _is_ a man. Perhaps, though, it was his fault. He was not persistent enough, maybe a bit spineless. The fact that he gave up so quickly possibly convinced her that her impressions were correct. Why, I'd have followed her day in and day out, year after year; never would I have let up until I had proved to her that she had been wrong."
"The colonel is right," Abbott approved, never taking his eyes off Courtlandt, who was apparently absorbed in the contemplation of the bread crumbs under his fingers.
"And more, by hook or crook, I'd have dragged in the other woman by the hair and made her confess."
"I do not doubt it, Colonel," responded Courtlandt, with a dry laugh. "And that would really have been the end of the story. The heroine of this rambling tale would then have been absolutely certain of collusion between the two."
"That is like a woman," the Barone agreed, and he knew something about them. "And where is this man now?"
"Here," said Courtlandt, pushing back his chair and rising. "I am he." He turned his back upon them and sought the garden.