She said nothing.
At that instant when she had raised her eyes and met him face to face she knew that all her happiness had been shattered at a single blow—that the shadow of evil which she had so long dreaded had at last fallen to crush her.
No longer was she Countess of Bracondale, a happy wife and proud mother, but the wife of a man who was not only a notorious thief, but an assassin to boot.
Inwardly she breathed a prayer to Providence for assistance in that dark hour. Her deep religious convictions, her faith in God, supported her at that dark hour of her life, and she clasped her hands and held her breath.
The man grinned, so confident was he of his power over her.
“I believed you were dead, or I would not have married again,” she said simply.
“Yes. You thought you had got rid of me, no doubt. But I think this precious husband of yours will have a rather rough half-hour when he knows how you’ve deceived him.”
“I have told him no lie!”
“No? You told him nothing, I suppose. Silence is a lie sometimes.”