"I have not got fifty pounds in the house," protested Mary Goddard, in some alarm. "I never keep much money—I can get it for you—"
"I have a great mind to look," returned her husband suspiciously. "How soon can you get it?"
"To-morrow night—the time to get a cheque cashed—"
"So you keep a banker's account?"
"Of course. But a cheque would be of no use to you—I wish it were!"
"Naturally you do. You would get rid of me at once." Suddenly his voice changed. "Oh, Mary—you used to love me!" cried the wretched man, burying his face in his hands.
"I was very wrong," answered his wife, looking away from him. "You did not deserve it—you never did."
"Because I was unfortunate!"
"Unfortunate!" repeated Mary Goddard with rising scorn. "Unfortunate—when you were deceiving me every day of your life. I could have forgiven a great deal—Walter—but not that, not that!"
"What? About the money?" he asked with sudden fierceness.