"I don't ask you to hear," said the vagrant, quickly.
"I wish to do so. It would have been a simple matter to exculpate yourself—you had not the funds in your possession, had never had them. You took no means to clear yourself?"
"None."
Bulstrode looked hard at the face his care had revealed to him: the deep eyes, the neck, chin, the sensitive mouth—there was a certain distinction about him in his borrowed clothes.
"Where is the woman now?"
"She married my brother—she is Lady Waring—my name," tardily introduced the stranger, "is Cecil Waring."
Bulstrode bowed. "Tell me something of her, in a word—in a word."
"Well, she is always clever," said the young man, slowly, "always very beautiful, and then very poor."
"Yes," nodded Bulstrode.
"She is like the rest of us—one of a fast wild set—a——"