"What—do—you—mean?" she faltered.
"Alfred Whyte, your husband of twenty years ago, is still living and likely to live—a very handsome man of forty years old, residing at his magnificent country seat, Whyte Hall, Dulwich, near London."
"Married again?" she whispered, hoarsely.
"Certainly not; an English gentleman does not commit bigamy."
"How did you—become acquainted—with these facts?"
"I was sufficiently interested in you to seek him out, when I was in England. I discovered where he lived; also that he was looking out for the best investment of his idle capital. I called on him personally in the interests of our great enterprise. He is now a member of the London syndicate."
"Did you speak—of me?"
"Never mentioned your name. How could I, knowing as I did of the Stillwater episode in your story?"
"And he lives! Alfred Whyte lives! Oh, misery, misery, misery! Evil fate has followed me all the days of my life," moaned Rose, wringing her hands.
"Now, why should you take on so, because Whyte is living? Would you have had that fine, vigorous man, in the prime of his life, die for your benefit?"