"I am glad of that, upon my soul!" said Telford, letting go a long breath.
She smiled strangely and with a kind of hardness. "A few days ago I had determined to find him if I could, and to that end I intended to ask a man who had proved himself a friend, to learn, if possible, where he was in America. I came here to see him and my daughter."
"Who is the man?"
"Mr. George Hagar."
A strange light shot from Telford's eyes. "Hagar is a fortunate man," he said. Then dreamily: "You have a daughter. I wish to God that—that ours had lived."
"You did not seem to care when I wrote and told you that she was dead."
"I do not think that I cared then. Besides"—
"Besides you loved that other woman, and my child was nothing to you," she said with low scorn. "I have seen her in London. I am glad—glad that she hates you. I know she does," she added. "She would never forgive you. She was too good for you, and you ruined her life."
He was very quiet and spoke in a clear, meditative voice. "You are right. I think she hates me. But you are wrong, too, for she has forgiven me."
"You have seen her?" She eyed him sharply.