"There is a ring of keys in it. This one"—as Helen handed them to her—"is the house key—number one hundred and one Fourth Street, where I've lived lately; this unlocks the door of my room, and this is the key to my trunk—I've got reduced to one, and there isn't very much that is worth anything in it, either," she interposed, with a bitter smile. "Those newspapers and pictures are at the bottom; take them, and do what you choose with them. My marriage certificate is there, too, in a wallet. I'd like you to destroy it. It hasn't meant very much to me, for I have never felt as if I were really John's wife, or that I had any guarantee in it that he would remain true, and not divorce me, the same as he did you. In my opinion, divorces are worse than Mormonism," she sarcastically interposed, "for Mormons can't shirk their responsibilities after they have got tired of one wife and taken another."
She paused to rest for a moment or two; then resumed:
"I have never used his name very much, and I would prefer no one else to see the certificate; most people have always called me, and I am perfectly willing to have them remember me only as, Marie Duncan."
Helen was surprised and deeply touched as she listened to her. What she had said hinted at more depth of character than she had ever given her credit for; while her wish to have only herself see the certificate, and her evident desire to be remembered only by her stage name, betrayed a delicate consideration for her and Dorothy that caused her to feel even more kindly toward her.
"I know it will not be a very pleasant task for you to do what I ask," Marie went on apologetically; "but I thought you would like to have those papers——"
"I would, indeed," said Helen earnestly, "and it is very thoughtful in you to arrange for me to get them. I will do anything else you wish that will be of any comfort to you."
"The daughter of the woman with whom I have lived has been very good to me, and you can give her everything in the room and trunk belonging to me," said Marie, after thinking a moment. "My jewelry is all gone; this one ring"—holding up her left hand, on which there was a plain band of gold—"is, like my trunk, all I have left, and it can stay just where it is. But I have one nice stone in my purse"—glancing at the bag in Helen's lap.
Helen drew forth the purse and searched until she found a small wad of tissue paper tucked into an inside pocket. Removing the wrapping, a diamond worth, perhaps, two hundred dollars fell into her hand; and there were also a few dollars in money in the purse.
"I have kept that for—for such a time as—this," Marie faltered, "though there have been times when I've thought I would have to let it go. I'd like you to hand it, with what money there is, in at the office downstairs, to—to——"
"I will; but pray do not try to talk any more now," interposed Helen, for she saw that, in spite of the brave front the woman was trying to keep up, she was stricken with terror whenever she thought of the fast-approaching end.