Overton tossed his cigar-stump into the fire and rose slowly to his feet, facing him.
“I can’t, nor can you. You can’t disgrace your wife. You know as well as I know—what would happen. It would ruin you. You can’t do it. You’ve married her, and—you’ve got to protect her. I’ll make you!”
Faunce drew back, meeting Overton’s eyes sullenly, his face distorted.
“Oh, I know! You love her. She’ll think I did it all to—to put you out of the way. She’ll despise me, too!”
Overton returned his look steadily.
“She’d have a right to despise you, if you let this thing disgrace her. It’s not out yet, and we must hide it.”
“Impossible!” Faunce threw out both hands with a gesture of repugnance. “I was in New York to-day, and I was asked a thousand questions. They’re on the trail—they’ll run it down!”
“They can’t run it down if we’re determined to hide it, to stand pat about it. That’s why I wanted to see you. I’ve been over the ground, and I think we can do it. Here’s this book of yours. I see you’ve used my diary and my notes as if I had died sure enough; but you’ve left a gap here.” He put his finger on the page. “We needn’t fill it. We can leave it shrouded in a nebulous haze. You speak of our being separated, but you don’t precisely state that we came together again before I broke my ankle. It has, by the way, lamed me a little. Now, think—think hard. Who knows the truth? Any one besides ourselves?”
Faunce thought, steadying himself.
“Yes; I think Asher knows enough to guess the rest. Asher was going with me on the new expedition, and he knows that the news of your return delayed it. He may be able to piece out the facts. I told them little enough. I’ve hidden the truth—I had cause!”