But he had no need to ask any question. He saw in a moment that she knew his secret.
‘Close the door,’ she said in a low voice; and after he had obeyed her she continued, ‘Ambrose, I have come here to-night because I could not rest at home till I had spoken to you. I have heard something terrible—so terrible that, had I believed it utterly, I think I should not be living now. It is something that concerns us both—me, most of all. Do you know what I mean? Tell me, for God’s sake, if you know! Spare me the pain of an explanation if you can. Ah, God help me! I see you know!’
Their eyes met. He could not lie to her now.
‘Yes, I know,’ he replied.
‘But it is not true? Tell me it is not true?’
As she gazed at him, and stretched out her arms in wild entreaty, his grief was pitiful beyond measure. He turned his eyes away with a groan of agony.
She came close to him, and, taking his head in her trembling hands, turned his face again to hers. He collected all his strength to meet her reproachful gaze, while he replied, in a deep tremulous voice:—
‘You have heard that I have deceived you, that I am the most miserable wretch beneath the sun. You have heard—God help me!—that there is a woman living, other than yourself, who claims to be my wife.’
‘Yes! that is what I have heard. But I do not believe—I will not believe it. I have come to have from your own lips the assurance that it is a falsehood. Dear Ambrose, tell me so. I will believe you. Whatever you tell me, I will believe with all my soul.’
She clung to him tenderly as she spoke, with the tears streaming fast down her face.