"That was five years ago," she said, her voice dropping to a sadly reminiscent whisper. "We were to have been married that spring, but—I would rather not tell the rest."
The woman probably felt her cheeks flush with warmth.
The governor could hear her quick breathing. In a minute he said kindly:
"Well?"
The woman hesitated an instant, and then fairly blurted out the rest of her tale. The governor, through the darkness, saw the woman lean, panting, toward him. Convulsively she pressed her hands to her face. She collapsed in tears. When her sobs became more regular, though still labored, the governor said:
"And Whalen—he knew this?"
"He must have known."
"Then why did he not tell?"
The woman hung her head and said, in a low voice:
"I was mistaken, sir. The other woman lied."
"Ah, I see." The governor turned and looked out of the windows. The old-fashioned iron lamps on
