"Never you mind that story," interrupted Yates; "that's all gone by. Well, Mr. Laurence, you don't seem to believe us yet; Sybil shall answer for herself."
"I will not speak," she cried. "You may kill me, but I will not open my lips."
"Kill you, my pet? why, I expect years of happiness with you still. We are going back to California, my dear. It will take a long time to repay your loving kindness that night."
"Sybil! Sybil!" groaned Laurence.
"You shall speak," continued Yates. "Tell him your real name; do it, I say!"
He transfixed her with his terrible glance; the old fear and dread came back. She was like a person magnetized against her will.
Without glancing toward Laurence, without being able to move her eyes from that fiery glance, she answered in a low, strange voice.
"I am Sybil Yates. I was his wife—I am his wife."
"Bravo!" exclaimed the gambler, exultingly. "Now, Mr. Laurence, I hope you are satisfied."
The young man did not answer; he could only stand, horror-stricken, upon the brink of the abyss down which he had so nearly plunged.