"You called," Kate spoke deliberately, "more than a year since to see Mr. Walcott."
The woman started and drew back slightly. "How could you know?" she exclaimed; "surely he did not tell you!"
"I saw you."
There was a moment's silence; when next she spoke her voice was lower and more musical.
"Señorita, I come as your friend; do you believe me?"
"I want to believe you," Kate answered, frankly, "but I can tell better whether I do or not when I know more of you and of your errands here."
For answer the woman, with a sudden swift movement, threw back her veil, revealing a face of unusual beauty,—oval in contour, of a rich olive tint, with waving masses of jet-black hair, framing a low, broad forehead. But her eyes were what drew Kate's attention: large, lustrous, but dark and unfathomable as night, yet with a look in them of dumb, agonizing appeal. The two women formed a striking contrast
as they stood face to face; they seemed to impersonate Hope and Despair.
"Señorita," she said, in a low, passionless voice, "I am Señor Walcott's wife."
Kate's very soul seemed to recoil at the words, but she did not start or shrink.