“He has been here,” was her answer, “but has gone.”
“You left London in secret to join him, I suppose?” I remarked bitterly.
“At his demand. He wished to see me.”
“And to obtain money from you by threats as he attempted on that night at Mayvill?”
The broken, white-faced girl nodded in the affirmative.
“I came to this place,” she explained, “as a paying-guest. A girl I knew at school, Bessie Wood, lives here with her mother. They believe I made a runaway match, and have been extremely kind to me these last two years.”
“Then you’ve been a wife for two whole years!” I exclaimed in blank surprise, utterly amazed at the manner in which I had been deceived.
“For nearly that time. We were married at Wymondham in Norfolk.”
“Tell me the whole story, Mabel,” I urged, after a long pause, endeavouring to preserve an outward calm, which certainly did not coincide with my innermost feelings.
Her breast heaved and fell beneath its lace and chiffons, her great wonderful eyes were filled with tears. For fully five minutes she was overcome by her emotion and quite unable to speak. At last, in a low, hoarse voice, she said—