"A long—time," she said, finally.
McGill leveled a look at the other man.
"That's right," Barclay agreed. "You might as well know."
"They tell me that you and her had—" McGill ground his teeth, and his little eyes blazed—"that she didn't have no right to marry without—telling me something about you."
The former answered through white lips: "Well? Everybody knew it except you, and you could have found out. I'd have married her sometime, myself, if you hadn't come along."
McGill's fingers opened slowly, at which the woman burst forth:
"No, no! Don't—do that. You can't blame him, Dan. I did it. Don't you understand? I'm the one. I loved him in 'Frisco, long before I saw you, and I've loved him ever since. Take it out on me, if you want to, but don't hurt him."
"I don't reckon I'd have minded it much if I'd known the truth at the start," said McGill. "Most women have made mistakes at one time or another, at least most of those I've known have. No, it ain't that, but you married me knowing that you loved him all the time."
"I tried to quit," cried the wife. "I tried to, but I couldn't."
"And what's the rottenest of all"—McGill's voice was ugly again—"you made him best man at the wedding, or just the same. He stood up with us. Didn't you, Barclay?"