"Then where is he?" she cried blankly.
"He is in the penitentiary, serving five years for breaking into Deep Willows, and robbing my safe of a bunch of money that belonged to you."
"Oh, God have mercy!"
The cry rang through the room. Monica reeled and would have fallen. In a moment her husband's arms were about her. But she flung him off, and her action was one of something like loathing. She stood up facing him, and pointing at him, while her agonized eyes challenged his.
"You—you!" she cried fiercely. Then: "Go on! Tell me—tell me quickly! It is you—you who have done this!"
Hendrie drew himself up. There was no hesitation about him, no shrinking before the story he had to tell.
"Yes, I did it," he said. "I—I! I have listened to your story. Now listen to mine, and when you blame me, you must blame yourself as well. I have loved you desperately. I love you now. God knows how I love you. If I did not I could never have endured what I have endured in the past and kept my reason. That is my excuse for what I have done.
"I saw that picture in your rooms and took the man to be an old lover. I hated him, and—I tore it up. I told you then there could only be one man in your life. I destroyed that pasteboard as I would destroy any one who came between us."
Monica remained silent while the man choked down his rising emotion.
"After we were married I became aware of the clandestine visits of a handsome man, to you, at Deep Willows. You were known to have embraced him."