"I will reserve my opinion. Are you willing that I should telegraph to San Francisco?"
Major Ashton hesitated a moment. He saw that his last chance was gone.
His wife's story was sure to be confirmed.
"Well," he said, recklessly, "the game is up! It is unfortunately true that I am tied to this lady. I hoped before this she would do me the favor to die and leave me free."
"Go, sir!" said Mrs. Sheldon, indignantly. "I am fortunate in being saved from marriage with such a man."
"I sha'n't break my heart," said the major, mockingly. "I am sorry to lose your fortune, but for yourself, I am well rid of the engagement. If you had not been blind, you would have understood that nothing but your money would have induced me to marry a woman old enough to be my mother."
This was the unkindest cut of all. Poor Mrs. Sheldon sank back in an arm-chair in a fit of hysterics, and the major, with a cynical smile, left the room.
The widow was a kind-hearted woman, and, when she came to herself, generously insisted upon Mrs. Ashton remaining under her roof till she had recovered from the fatigue of her journey. Later she purchased her a return ticket to San Francisco, and secured an escort for her. She expressed a hope that her recreant husband would return to his duty, but Mrs. Ashton shook her head.
"I could never trust him," she said. "I am better off with my father," and Mrs. Sheldon felt that she was right.
Major Ashton disappeared from Chicago, but where he went has not transpired. Perhaps amid other scenes he may be laying snares for other heiresses. Mrs. Sheldon, at any rate, has been saved from his arts.