"She was Nathalie Marsh—she is Nathalie Wyndham now. She is my wife!"
Mr. Blake fairly gasped for breath.
"Your wife!" he exclaimed, "are you going mad, Mr. Wyndham? Olive is your wife!"
"No," said Paul Wyndham, with cold sternness, "she is not—she never has been. The compact I made with her was a formal matter of business, which gave me the right to dwell under the same roof with her, but never made me her husband. She and I understand each other perfectly. Nathalie is my wife—my dear and cherished wife, and was so before I ever came to Speckport."
"Then, Mr. Wyndham," said Val, with gravity, "you are a scoundrel!"
"Perhaps so. Come in."
Val Blake took off his hat and crossed the threshold of Rosebush Cottage for the first time since it was inhabited.
"And your mother was only a myth?" he asked, as Mr. Wyndham closed and locked carefully the front door.
"Only a myth. My mother is in Westchester County yet."
Val asked no more questions, but looked around him. The hall was long, with beautiful proof-engravings, and lit by pendant chandeliers. There was a door to either hand—Midge came out of the one to the left, still wearing that anxious face.