“No, he isn’t. He’s very much alive and kicking—and his name isn’t Fenham either, never was.”
“Well, what is it then?” and his voice was hard and desperate.
“Hilary Blachland.”
“Eh?”
It was all he could say. He could only stare. He seemed to be stricken speechless with the shock, utterly speechless.
“I’m very sorry for you, Percy, very sorry. But you’ll thank me for it bye-and-bye,” went on Blachland concernedly. “That woman has told you a tissue of lies. I can account for her time for nearly half a dozen years, for the simple reason that it has been spent with me—the last two years of it in Mashunaland. She left me though, not much more than half a year ago—cleared out with another Johnny, just such a young ass as yourself, who thought her a goddess, but they got sick of each other in no time. Why, she was telling me all about that herself only this morning, before you were up.”
Percival said nothing. For some little while he rode on in silence, gazing straight between his horse’s ears. The thing had come upon him as a terrible shock, and he sat, half dazed. It never occurred to him for one moment to refuse to believe his kinsman’s statement, nor any part of it. Suddenly he looked up.
“Who is she then?” he asked.
“Hermia Saint Clair. You remember?”
“Yes. Good God!”