“Unfortunately for your denial, Miss Ives, Finley had written proofs in his possession that proved your guilt clearly.”
“I deny it in spite of all his proofs,” she cried desperately, but, smiling scornfully still, he answered:
“As you please, Miss Ives; but permit me to pass. I am anxious to meet my wife!”
“You have no wife!” she exclaimed, with such spiteful yet earnest emphasis that he paused again, and said:
“Deny it as you will; but I have proved to the world’s satisfaction that Pansy Laurens is my wife, and a week ago, when Mr. Finley recovered from the long stupor and loss of memory that followed upon his fall, he told me my wife still lived, in the person of Mrs. Falconer. I wondered why she had not come at once to me on learning that she was truly my wife. But, guessing that it was owing to her sensitive, retiring nature, I set myself to work to learn her whereabouts. I learned that she had separated from Colonel Falconer, and was living here in strict retirement. I hurried here at once.”
“In spite of all that, I repeat my assertion: You have no wife!” answered Juliette, with savage emphasis and barbarous delight in the torture she was inflicting on his heart.
“My Heaven!” he cried, shuddering. “You do not mean to tell me that Pansy is dead!”
“No; it is worse than that.” She paused a moment, watching him keenly, the better to enjoy her triumph, then added: “She has procured a divorce from you.”
Then she shrank in spite of herself, for the rage and despair on that darkly handsome face frightened her, defiant as she was, and his voice seemed to breathe menace as he shouted hoarsely:
“It is false! False as your treacherous heart, Juliette Ives!” And, with the words, he rushed madly from her toward the cottage, wild to know the truth from Pansy’s own beautiful lips.