at I
was the wife of his son, secretly married. This, placing pen and ink
before me, he compelled me to sign, and when I had done so, pleading
to be allowed to see my husband, if only for a moment, I thought he
was going to strike me, for he shook his fist in my face, and used
words which were appalling to hear. That was the last I ever saw of
Lord Rantremly, my husband, the clergyman, or the butler. I was at
once sent off to London with my belongings, the butler himself buying
my ticket, and flinging a handful of sovereigns into my lap as the
train moved out.'

Here the woman stopped, buried her face in her hands, and began to
weep.

'Have you done nothing about this for the past ten years?'

She shook her head.

'What could I do?' she gasped. 'I had little money, and no friends.
Who would believe my story? Besides this, Lord Rantremly retained
possession of a letter, signed by myself, that would convict me of
attempted blackmail, while the butler would swear to anything against
me.'

'You have no marriage certificate, of course?'

'No.'

'What has become of the clergyman?'

'I do not know.'

'And what of Lord Rantremly's son?'

'It was announced that he had gone on a voyage to Australia for his
health in a sailing ship, which was wrecked on the African coast, and
everyone on board lost.'

'What is your own theory?'

'Oh, my husband was killed by the blow given him in the chapel.'

'Madam, that does not seem credible. A blow from the fist seldom
kills.'

'But he fell backwards, and his head struck the sharp stone steps at
the foot of the altar. I know my husband was dead when the butler and
his father carried him out.'

'You think the clergyman was also murdered?'

'I am sure of it. Both master and servant were capable of any crime or
cruelty.'

'You received no letters from the young man?'

'No. You see, during our short friendship we were constantly together,
and there was no need of correspondence.'

'Well, madam, what do you expect of me?'

'I hoped you would investigate, and find perhaps where Reginald and
the clergyman are buried. I realise that I have no proof, but in that
way my strange story will be corroborated.'

I leaned back in my chair and looked at her. Truth to tell, I only
partially credited her story myself, and yet I was positive she
believed every word of it. Ten years brooding on a fancied injustice
by a woman living alone, and doubtless often in dire poverty, had
mi