“But I am your husband,” he said. “You have forgotten. I am your husband, though as yet your hand has scarcely lain in mine.”
“It was a mistake,” she faltered. “You told me that your name was Meysey Hill. I thought that you were he.”
His face darkened.
“I did it for love of you,” he said. “I lied, as I would have committed a murder, or done any evil deed sooner than lose you. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. I can keep you. You shall have a house out at Balham or Sydenham, and two servants. You shall have the spending of every penny of my money. Annabel, tell me that you did not wish me dead. Tell me that you are not sorry to see me again.”
Her passion conquered for a moment her fear.
“But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. “Our marriage must be annulled. It was no marriage at all.”
“Never,” he exclaimed vehemently. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up.”
“But it is too late,” she declared. “You have no right to hold me to a bargain which on your side was a lie. I consented to become Mrs. Meysey Hill—never your wife.”
“What do you mean—by too late?” he demanded.
“There is some one else whom I care for!”