“It is correct, then?” asked Godfrey, a gleam of triumph flashing across his face.
She glanced at him in surprise.
“Oh, I understand; it was merely theorising. Well, it was very cleverly done, Mr. Godfrey.”
“And it is correct?” he persisted.
She hesitated yet a moment, but there was no denying the importunity of his gaze.
“Yes,” she answered; “yes.”
Godfrey leaned back in his chair with a long sigh of relief. He had won the battle.
“Miss Croydon,” he said, “I’m going to reward you for your frankness by telling you something which I had intended to keep secret a while longer, just to punish you. Your sister never was the wife of Tremaine and has nothing whatever to fear from him; he has no hold on her at all. She has never been anybody’s wife but Mr. Delroy’s.”
She was staring at him with widely opened eyes, her hands clasped above her heart.
“Oh, if it were really so!” she cried. “If it were really so!”
“It is so,” repeated Godfrey, and took a little yellow envelope from his pocket. “Read this,” and he unfolded a sheet of paper and held it toward her.
She took it with trembling hand and read the message written upon it; but seemingly without understanding it.
“It is a cable,” he explained, “from the Record’s correspondent at Dieppe. Your pardon, Lester,” he added with a fleeting smile; “I forgot to
