“Dearest, I have a house. Are you angry that I am so rich? Part of an inheritance. But now it must be sold. This is from my lawyer. He tells me that I must sign the deed both with my proper maiden name and as your wife”—she stooped there to kiss him, and repeated the word—“and you must join in it as my husband. It is a bore to own a house, isn’t it, dearest?”
But her lightness found him full of terror. She heard him breathe:
“What was your maiden name?”
“Ruth Fenton,” smiled his wife.
Again that exclamation.
“What is it?” she begged.
“No,” he said. “There must be no secret between chums. My punishment has come. And it is greater than I could possibly have conceived. I must read you this, and then if you wish—go away from you.”
“Not while I am here,” she laughed, beginning to understand. “Whither thou goest, I will go. You can’t—cannot lose me—me, your lawful wife!”
Though she laughed with tremendous happiness, he read the letter through with no abatement of his terror.
“As you know, I have been all these two years finding the person who shot you. At last I have her—yes, her! It is a woman. Her name is Ruth Fenton. Her large fortune has been exhausted by your world-renowned extravagances, and she is now selling the last thing she owns—her house. I hope you feel as mean as I do—for you!