"Never. After I marched out of his house that morning I was frightened, and at least two years went by before I dared to ask anything about him. He had left the house we lived in and disappeared too. He may have tried to trace me, but a child is very easily lost, and I was only a child. Anyhow, he never found me. And when a long time afterwards Mr. Sinclair asked me to marry him, I thought that I was free, and finally I consented. I knew I had no claim upon Sir Geoffrey, and I honestly believed he had none on me. Are you sure I was not free?"
"Quite sure," Melville answered. "Tell me the rest."
"We were married, and got along all right, and he died," she replied. "It was just like hundreds of other marriages, I suppose. I don't know that I loved him particularly, but I was a pretty good wife, and he left me comfortably provided for, and—and that is the end of the story."
She gave vent to a defiant little laugh, and looked at Melville.
"Those are the facts," she said. "Now, if you are right and I was wrong, tell me the position."
"Honestly, it's a very unpleasant one," Melville answered. "You see, Sir Geoffrey being alive at the time, your marriage with Mr. Sinclair was quite invalid. Sir Geoffrey could divorce you on the facts and you would have no claim on him for alimony; and, on the other hand, you would forfeit all the income you derive from Mr. Sinclair's estate as his widow, which legally, of course, you are not."
There was an interval, during which the minds of both worked quickly.
"What am I to do about Sir Ross?" Mrs. Sinclair asked presently. "I suppose I shall have to say that, for reasons that have just come to my knowledge, I can't marry him, or something of the sort. But he is dreadfully inquisitive; and, besides, any man would want something more definite than that."
"What more definite reason can you give?" Melville enquired.
"I shall have to tell him about Sir Geoffrey," she answered.