She wheeled as if he had struck her, and answered:—
“What, sir!” Then, turning as red as a rose, she said, “O sir, that was cruel!” covered her face with her hands, and sobbed aloud. It was only as she was in the midst of these last words that she recognized in the officer before her the sharper-visaged of those two men who had stood by her in Broadway.
“Step back here, Mrs. Richling.”
She came.
“Well, madam! I should like to know what we are coming to, when a lady like you—a palpable, undoubted lady—can stoop to such deceptions!”
“Sir,” said Mary, looking at him steadfastly and then shaking her head in solemn asseveration, “all that I have said to you is the truth.”
“Then will you explain how it is that you go by one name in one part of the country, and by another in another part?”
“No,” she said. It was very hard to speak. The twitching of her mouth would hardly let her form a word. “No—no—I can’t—tell you.”
“Very well, ma’am. If you don’t start back to Milwaukee by the next train, and stay there, I shall”—
“Oh, don’t say that, sir! I must go to my husband! Indeed, sir, it’s nothing but a foolish mistake, made years ago, that’s never harmed any one but us. I’ll take all the blame of it if you’ll only give me a pass!”