Richard Linnell looked at him with a curious feeling of horror—he knew not why—troubling his breast.
“Do you want to know any more?” said the Colonel roughly.
“Yes; go on.”
“I did not see either of them for two years: the young wife or the scoundrel I had introduced to the house as my friend. Then I had a letter from the lady—a piteous, appealing letter to me to help her. She told me she was starving in London, Dick, and that the villain who had won her into leaving her home had forsaken her at the end of six months, and that, since then, she had been striving to get a living by teaching, but that now she was prostrate on a sick bed, helpless and alone.”
There was a few moments’ pause, and then the Colonel went on:
“I went to see her, Dick—poor, little, weak woman. Her good looks were gone, and she lay sick unto death for want of medical help and ordinary nutriment.”
The Colonel stopped again, for his mouth seemed dry, and he passed his tongue over his fevered lips before he went on.
“I did what was necessary, and went straight to the man who had done all this wrong. I told him everything, and that it was his duty to make some reparation at least by providing for the lady’s needs, and ensuring that she should not want in the future.”
“Well?” said Richard hoarsely.
“He laughed at me. He refused so utterly that I lost my temper and called him villain and scoundrel. He retorted by insulting me with a vile charge as to the cause of my taking an interest in that poor woman, and he struck me, and then—”