"Yes, you are mad!" said Margaret, with conviction. "You have never seen me with your husband!—never! never! Let go my dress!"
"Yes, you!" sobbed the girl. "Do you think I should mistake when all my life hung upon it? I have tried not to mention my husband's name, but you force me to do it. He may have tried to hide it from you—it is possible—but you may know it!"
"Yes, tell me," said Margaret, soothingly, feeling that it would be well to humor her, "tell me; but let go my dress—you frighten me—please."
"His name is Blair! He is Lord Leyton!" sobbed the girl.
Margaret uttered no cry. For a second she seemed as if she had not heard. The room spun round; the blue sky outside the window turned red; and the sofa opposite her seemed to heave as if shaken by an earthquake. Then she laughed.
"You are a wicked woman!" she said, in slow tones of cold anger and contempt—"a very wicked woman! Why have you come here with this story? Do you want money?"
The girl looked up at her with a strange look. Had she expected her victim to take the blow differently?
"You—you don't believe me!" she wailed at last.
Margaret laughed; a short laugh of scorn and contempt.
"Believe you!" she said, and that was all.