Trevlyn's face had grown white as death while she had been speaking, but it was more like the white heat of passion, than like the pallor of detected guilt. His rigid lips were stern and pale; his dark eyes fairly shot lightnings. He looked at his wife, as though he would read her very soul.
"Alexandrine!" he said, hoarsely, "you believed this of me? You deemed me guilty of the crime of murder, and yet you married me?"
"Yes, I married you. I was not so conscientious as your saintly Margaret. She would not marry a man who had shed blood—even though he had done it for love of her!"
Trevlyn caught her arm fiercely.
"Madam, do you mean to say that this shameful story ever came to the ears of Margie Harrison?"
"Yes, she knew it. I told it to her myself! Kill me, if you like," she added, seeing his fearful face; "it will not be your first crime!"
He forced himself to be calm.
"When did you make this revelation to Margaret?"
"The night before she left New York—the night she was to have gone to the opera with you. I deemed it my duty. I did not do it to separate you, though I am willing to confess that I desired you to be separated. I knew that Margaret would sooner die than marry you, if the knowledge of your crime was possessed by her."
"And she—Margaret—believed me guilty?"