She sprang forward and caught his wrist.
"Did he not tell you the story of his life--how he was ruined by a woman?"
"Elsie Macgregor?"
"No, she tried to save him; it is not her I mean--you know--his wife--his Maltese wife, Bianca Cotoner."
Monteith fell back in his chair, and covered his face with his hands. Heavens, was it all true then? was the girl he loved the sister of a murderess? And yet, though it looked so black against her, where was the proof? He looked up suddenly.
"There is no proof," he began.
"Proof!" she flashed out, quickly; "you want proof--I can supply it." And she ran quickly out of the room.
"What does she mean?" asked Monteith.
"I know," said Foster, sagaciously; "she has gone for that paper."
"Impossible!"