Something in the man's face, in the man's tone, even more than his words, made her look quickly up. To his dying day, James Liston never forgot the haunted, terrified look in those dilating, dark eyes. She laid her hand over her fast beating heart, and spoke with an effort.
"He is well, you say?" she panted.
"He is well, Mrs. Laurence. It were better for you he were dead."
"Sir!" she cried, the light leaping to her eyes, the flush to her face; "how dare you! He is my husband—how dare you say such a thing to me!"
"He is not your husband."
The low, level, monotonous voice spoke the dreadful words, the small, light, glimmering eyes were fixed immovably upon her with a look, half-contemptuous, half-compassionate, in their depths.
She rose slowly to her feet, and stood blankly staring at him. Was the man mad?
"Not my—" she paused irresolute. Should she run away from this madman or stand her ground. "Give me my letter!" she said, angrily; "I have nothing more to say to you!"
"Because I tell you Laurence Thorndyke is not your husband? My child, it is true."
His tone was solemn—his face full of compassion. What a child she was, he was thinking; how she loved him. What was there about this young fellow that women should give up all that made their lives most dear, for his sake?