I saw your hand at supper, I
knew."

"And you tried to avoid me?"

"When you have something to conceal, it is wise to avoid anyone
connected with it."

She answered him very quietly, but he knew instinctively that she was
fighting him with her whole strength. It was almost more than he could
bear.

"Believe me," he said, "I am not a man to wantonly betray a woman's
secret. I have kept yours faithfully for years. But when within the last
few days I came to know who you were, and that your husband, Major
Coningsby, was contemplating making a second marriage, I was in honour
bound to speak."

"You told him?" She raised her eyes for a single instant, and he read in
them a reproach unutterable.

His heart smote him. What had she endured, this woman, before taking
that final step to cut herself off from the man whose name she had
borne? But he would not yield an inch. He was goaded by pitiless
necessity.

"I told him," he answered. "But I had no means of proving what I said.
And he refused to believe me."

"And now?" she almost whispered.

He heard the note of tragedy in the words, and he braced himself to meet
her most desperate resistance.

"Before I go further," he said, "let me tell you this! Slight though you
may consider our acquaintance to be, I have always felt--I have always
known--that you are a good woman."

She made a quick gesture of protest.

"Would a good woman have left the man who saved her life lying ill in a
strange land while she escaped with her miserable freedom?"

He answered her without hesitation, as he had long ago answered himself.

"No doubt the need was great."

She turned away from him and sat down, bowing her head upon her hand.

"It was," she said, her voice very low. "I was nearly mad with trouble.
You had pity then--without knowing. Have you--no pity--now?"

The appeal went out into silence. Carey neither spoke nor moved. His
face was like a stone mask--the face of a strong man in torture.

After a pause of seconds she spoke again, her face hidden from him.

"The first Mrs. Coningsby is dead," she said. "Let it be so! Nothing
will ever bring her back. Geoffrey Coningsby is free to marry--whom he
will."

The words were scarcely more than a whisper, but they reached and
pierced him to the heart. He drew a step nearer to her, and spoke with
sudden vehemence.

"I would help you, Heaven knows, if I could! But you will see--you must
see presently--that I have no choice.