"Don't you call a man lucky," she said quietly, "who died like my husband in the clean waves of the sea, instead of being hanged as he deserved?"
"What do you mean?" asked the startled Giles.
"Can't you guess?" She drew a paper out of her pocket. "I came here to give you that, Mr. Ware. The confession of my wicked husband."
"Confession?"
"Yes. You will find it particularly interesting, Mr. Ware. It was my miserable husband who murdered Daisy."
"Never!" gasped Giles, rising aghast. "He was in the library all the time. You told——"
"I know what I told," she answered quickly. "I did so to save my name from shame; for the sake of my children I lied. Oliver did not deserve the mercy I showed him. Base to the last he deserted me. Now he is dead. I am glad to hear it." She paused and laughed. "I shall not change my dress, Mr. Ware."
"Don't, Mrs. Morley," he said, with a shudder.
"Not that name, if you please," she said, and noting her card on the desk she tore it in two. Then opening her case she tore the other cards and scattered them on the floor. "Mrs. Morley is no more. I am Mrs. Warton. That is the name of my first husband—my true husband—the father of my three children. Yes, Mr. Ware, I have sold my furniture, and let The Elms. To-morrow I leave for the south of France with my children. I land in France as Mrs. Warton, and the old life is gone for ever. Can you blame me?"
"From what I know of Morley I cannot," he stammered. "But what do you know, Mrs. Mor—I mean Mrs. Warton?"