There was a queer note in her voice as she put the question; it sounded almost like a touch of jealousy.
“No; her husband gave it to me,—after she died,” I said sadly.
“Her husband! She was married, then. Who was he?”
“A man worthy of her; but I’d rather not talk about them,—not just at present; it’s too painful.”
“Oh, Maurice, I’m so sorry,” she murmured in swift penitence; and to my great relief she questioned me no more for that evening.
But I told the whole story, so far as I knew it, to Pendennis and Jim, after the rest of the household had gone to bed; and we sat till the small hours, comparing notes and discussing the whole matter, which still presented many perplexing points.
I omitted nothing; I said how I had seen Anne—as I believed then and until this day—in that boat on the Thames; how I had suspected,—felt certain,—that she had been to Cassavetti’s rooms that night, and was cognizant of his murder; what I had learned from Mr. Treherne, down in Cornwall, and everything of importance that had happened since.
Jim punctuated the story with exclamations and comments, but Anthony Pendennis listened almost in silence, though when I came to the part about the mad woman from Siberia, who had died at the hunting-lodge, and who was spoken of as the Countess Vassilitzi, he started, and made a queer sound, like a groan, though he signed to me to continue. I was glad afterwards that I hadn’t described what she looked like. He was a grave, stern man, wonderfully self-possessed.
“It is a strange story,” he said, when I had finished. “A mysterious one.”
“Do you hold the key to the mystery?” I asked him pointblank.