"I have found you," she says. "My—husband!"
No reply. Both his shaking hands go up to hide his face. I run to him, and fling my arms around his neck.
"Marmaduke, speak!" I cry. "Tell her she lies. 'Duke, 'Duke, raise your head and send her from this place. Why are you silent? Why will you not look at me? It is only I—your own Phyllis. Oh, Marmaduke, I am horribly frightened. Why don't you tell her to begone?"
"Because he dare not," says my visitor, slowly. "Well, Marmaduke, have you no welcome for your wife?"
He puts me roughly from him, and, going over to her, seizes her by the wrists and drags her into the full light of the window.
"You fiend!" he hisses, beneath his breath. "It was all false, then, the news of your death? You are alive? You are still left to contaminate the earth? Who wrote the tidings that set me, as I believed, free?"
"I did," replies the woman, quietly. "I was tired of you. Your milk-and-watery affection, even at the very first, sickened me. I wished to see you no more. I had begun to hate you, and so took that means of ridding myself of you forever. But when I heard of the rich uncle's death—of the money, the grandeur, all that had come to you—I regretted my folly, and started to claim my rights. I am here: repudiate me if you can."
I have crept closer; I am staring at Marmaduke. I cannot, I will not, still believe.
"Marmaduke, say she is not your wife," I demand, imperiously.
"Ay, say it," says the woman, with a smile.