"Never!" she broke in. "Of course not. It was all my own invention."
"You admit it? Thank you. You formally relieve me of the imputation I have so long lain under without knowing it, of having run away from my duty?"
She said lifelessly: "We thought you were dead."
"Hah! I see. You thought it didn't matter what you said of a dead man? But dead men's characters should be all the more sacred because they cannot defend them. I should be sorry indeed to leave behind me such a reputation as I seem to have hereabouts—though, indeed, a man is very helpless in these cases. He is at a hopeless disadvantage when a woman is his traducer. I can see that Jim Urquhart will never be a friend of mine again, whatever happens."
"He shall know the truth. Everybody shall know the truth," said Mary.
"How can everybody know the truth? Only by my own affidavit, and that would not be believed. Besides, it is not for me to deny—at the cost of branding a lady a liar."
It was the straight word, regardless of manners, with this sea-bred man.
"You need not. I know how to do it so that people will believe. I am going to write a letter to the newspaper—a plain statement, that will fully exonerate you."
He nearly jumped out of his chair with the fright she gave him.
"You will do nothing so ridiculous!" he exclaimed angrily.