“I may perhaps be able to assist you,” I said. “I did on a former occasion.”
“No,” she answered, in a voice of intense sorrow. “I have now grown careless of myself, careless of life, careless of everything since I left London. With the man I loved so truly I could have been happy always, yet she knew my past, and would allow me no chance to redeem myself. It is but what I deserve, I suppose, therefore I must suffer. But can you wonder that, hating the world as I do, I entertain a certain grim satisfaction in being leader of this ragged, ruffianly band of frontier free-lances?”
“No,” I answered, echoing her sigh; “I am scarcely surprised, yet I cannot think that my wife, who was your friend, would willingly serve you as you believe.”
“She did,” Sonia answered, again raising her sad, dark eyes. “She alone I have to thank for the sorrow that has wrecked my life.”
“What was the name of the man you loved?” I asked. “Do I know him?”
“Yes, you know him; but his name is of no consequence,” she answered evasively, in a faint voice, lowering her eyes. “My secret is best kept in my own heart.”
“If my wife did it unintentionally, without knowing you were lovers, there is some excuse,” I said, half apologetically.
“No,” she answered, with sudden harshness. “No excuse is possible. There were other circumstances which rendered her conduct unpardonable.”
“I really can’t believe it,” I said. “I feel certain that she would never have exposed you willingly.”
“Alas!” she said at last, “the evil is now done, and the stigma cannot be removed. But you asked me to reveal certain facts that would place her mind at rest, restore her confidence, and give her freedom. I have told you. I have made a confession to you that no other person has had from my lips.”