"But he is dead," she murmured at length.
"It seems so," he assented.
She turned and faced him, a sudden paleness making her very lips white.
"I have no right to let you show me this," she cried, in a voice thrilling with emotion. "My husband is alive. I never pretended to love him, but I am his wife. You must have seen him with Arthur Fenton—Dr. Ashton."
"Dr. Ashton!" he echoed, in bewilderment. "Your husband? Dr. Ashton,
Teuton's friend?"
"Yes," replied she, her eyes falling, and her breast beginning to heave. "I had promised not to tell; but it was not right. I should have told you, but I could not bear—Oh," she cried, breaking off her sentence abruptly, "if you despise me it is only my due!"
"Despise you! As if it were possible! But don't you know? Haven't you been told?"
"Know? Been told?" demanded Helen, in alarm. "What is it?"
"Haven't you seen the morning paper, even?"
"No. What was in it? Has any thing happened to Dr. Ashton?"