Everard Dawn had revealed to them all in one brief sentence a totally unsuspected fact.
Mrs. Varian, the wealthy, beautiful, haughty woman, was his divorced wife.
Cinthia trembled with surprise, and clung closer to her loving friend, who thought quickly.
“My suspicions and forebodings are about to be verified. Alas, poor Cinthia!”
Arthur Varian drew his arm about his mother, whispering to her of courage in this trying hour, begging her to gratify the sick man’s request.
Everard Dawn waited a moment, then added:
“You may make the story as short as you please, only let it come from your own lips.”
Mrs. Varian lifted her head with something of her old haughty pride, and looked at Cinthia where she drooped against her friend’s breast, but her voice was slightly tremulous as she began:
“When I first met your father, Cinthia, he was a rising young lawyer employed by my father to attend to some complicated business matters. Our acquaintance ripened into love, and he became a suitor for my hand against my father’s wishes. But as my lover’s only fault was poverty and we were rich, I soon persuaded papa to withdraw his objections. So we were married.”
She paused and sighed, and every one heard Everard Dawn re-echo that sigh heavily.