"Do you allude to Frederick Massingbird?" asked Lionel, in a tone whose coldness he could not help.
"Yes, I do. He was my husband," she resentfully added. "One day, on the voyage to Australia, he dropped a word that made me think he knew something about that business of Rachel's, and I teased him to tell me who it was who had played the rogue. He said it was Lionel Verner."
A pause. But for Lionel's admirable disposition, how terribly he might have retorted upon her, knowing what he had learned that day.
"Did he tell you I had completed the roguery by pushing her into the pond?" he inquired.
"I don't know. I don't remember. Perhaps he did."
"And—doubting it—you could marry me!" quietly remarked Lionel.
She made no answer.
"Let me set you right on that point once for all, then," he continued. "I was innocent as you. I had nothing to do with it. Rachel and her father were held in too great respect by my uncle—nay, by me, I may add—for me to offer her anything but respect. You were misinformed, Sibylla."
She laughed scornfully. "It is easy to say so."
"As it was for Frederick Massingbird to say to you what he did."