have married me!"

"Good God!" Barrington muttered.

"You see," Lady Ruth continued, resting her hand upon her husband's coat
sleeve, "the thing happened all in a second. I had the check in my hand
when you and Sir William came crashing through that window, and
Sir William's eyes were upon me. The only way to save myself was to
repudiate it, and let Wingrave get out of the affair as well as he
could. Of course, I never guessed what was going to happen."

"Then it was Wingrave," Barrington muttered, "who played the game?"

"Yes!" Lady Ruth answered quietly. "But I am not so sure about him now.
You and I, Lumley, know one another a little better today than we
did twelve years ago. We have had a few of the corners knocked off, I
suppose. I can tell you things now I didn't care to then. Wingrave had
lent me money before! He has letters from me today, thanking him for
it."

Barrington was a large, florid man, well built and well set up. In court
he presented rather a formidable appearance with his truculent chin, his
straight, firm mouth, and his commanding presence. Yet there was nothing
about him now which would have inspired fear in the most nervous of
witnesses. He looked like a man all broken up by some unexpected shock.

"If he had produced those letters--at the trial--"

Lady Ruth shrugged her shoulders.

"I risked it, anyhow," she said. "I had to. My story was the only one
which gave me a dog's chance, and I didn't mean to go under--then.
Wingrave never gave me away, but I fancy he's feeling differently about
it now!"

"How do you know, Ruth?"

"I have seen him! He sent for me!" she answered. "Lumley, don't look at
me like that! We're not in the nursery, you and I. I went because I had
to. He's going to America for a time, and then he's coming back here. I
think that when he comes back--he means mischief!"

"He is not the sort of man to forget," Barrington said, half to himself.

She shuddered ever so slightly. Then she stretched out a long white arm,
and drawing his head suddenly down to her, kissed him on the lips.

"If only," she murmured, "he would give up the letters! Without them, he
might say--anything. No one would believe!"

Barrington raised his eyes to hers. There was something almost pathetic
in the worshiping light which shone there. He was, as he had always
been, her abject slave.

"Can you think of any way?" he asked. "Shall I go to him again?"

"Useless!" she answered. "You have not