"We were engaged to be married. Two days before the day fixed for our wedding she—she came to me (knowing me, I suppose, to be a mild man) and told me she was married—had been married for a week or more, to a man I had never seen—a Mr. Goodwyn-Sandys. Hallo! is it broken?"
For the pipe had dropped from Caleb's fingers and lay in pieces upon the floor.
"Quite so," he went on in answer to the white face confronting him, "I know it. She is at this moment living in Troy with her husband. I had understood they were in America; but the finger of fate is in every pie."
Caleb drew out a large handkerchief, and, mopping his brow, gasped—
"Well, of all—" And then broke off to add feebly, "Here's a coincidence!—as Bill said when he was hanged 'pon his birthday."
"I have not met her yet, and until now have avoided the chance. But now I am curious to see her—"
"Don't 'ee, sir."
"And to-night intended writing."
"Don't 'ee, sir; don't 'ee."
"To ask for an interview, Caleb," pursued Mr. Fogo, drawing himself up suddenly, while his eyes fairly gleamed behind his spectacles. "Here I am, my past wrecked and all its cargo of ambitions scattered on the sands, and yet—and yet I feel tonight that I could thank that woman. Do you understand?"