Cyril waited for her to continue, but for a long time it seemed doubtful if she would have the courage to do so.
"I am looking," she said at last, speaking slowly and with a visible effort, "for a paper which will tell me whether my—son is alive or dead."
"Your son? So you were his Lordship's mistress——"
"Before God I was his wife! I am no wanton, my lord!"
"The old story—" began Cyril, but Valdriguez stopped him with a furious gesture.
"Do not dare to say that my child's mother was a loose woman! I will not permit it. Arthur Wilmersley—may his Maker judge him as he deserves—wrecked my life, but at least he never doubted my virtue. He knew that the only way to get me was to marry me."
"So he actually married you?" exclaimed Cyril.
"No—but for a long time I believed that he had. How could a young, innocent girl have suspected that the man she loved was capable of such cold-blooded deception? Even now, I cannot blame myself for having fallen into the trap he baited with such fiendish cunning. Think of it—he induced me to consent to a secret marriage by promising that if I made this sacrifice for his sake, he would become a convert to my religion—my religion! And as we stood together before the altar, I remember that I thanked God for giving me this opportunity of saving a soul from destruction. I never dreamed that the church he took me to was nothing but an old ruin he had fitted up as a chapel for the occasion. How could I guess that the man who married us was not a priest but a mountebank, whom he had hired to act the part?"
Valdriguez bowed her head and the tears trickled through her thin fingers.
"I know that not many people would believe you but, well—I do." It seemed to Cyril as if the words sprang to his lips unbidden.