Monica hung her head.
"I know. I did it because—I could not give you up."
Hendrie looked up with something like anguish in his eyes.
"Oh, woman, woman," he cried. "Why didn't you take me into your confidence? These lies could have been saved, and—and all these other, and even more, terrible consequences. Listen to me, and I will tell you all the rest. I can see it now. I can see it more clearly than you can tell me. He called himself Frank—Smith?"
Monica started.
"Yes. Whenever he visited me at Deep Willows. His real name was Frank Burton."
Hendrie's gaze wandered toward the window. The street lamps had just been lit. Never in his life had he known what it was to humble himself before another. Never had he known what it was to excuse himself for any act of his. Now he knew he must do both of these things.
Monica stepped eagerly forward from the shadow of the curtains.
"You—you know where he is?" she demanded.
Hendrie nodded. Then a strange thing happened. A harsh, mirthless laugh rang through the darkening room. Monica stared at the man's unsmiling face, horrified, and at a loss to understand.