“Dear Mrs. Underwood,” I said.  “Why tell me any more?  I am perfectly satisfied with what you have just told me.  Be sure that no rumors will trouble me again.”

Her clasp of my hand tightened until my rings hurt my flesh.  Into her face came a look of triumph.

“I knew it,” she said jubilantly.  “I could have banked on you.  You’re a big woman, my dear, and I believe we are going to be real friends.”

She loosened her clasp of my hands, leaned back in her chair and looked for a long, meditative moment at the fire.

“You cannot imagine how much easier your attitude makes the telling of my story,” she began finally.

“But I just assured you that there was no need for the telling,” I interrupted.

“I know.  But it is your right to know, and it will be far better if you are put in possession of the facts.  It is an ugly story.  I think I had better tell you the worst of it first.”

I marvelled at the look that swept across her face.  Bitter pain and humiliation were written there so plainly that I looked away.  Then my eyes fell upon her strong, white, shapely hands which were resting upon the arms of the chair.  They were strained, bloodless, where the fingers gripped the tapestried surface.

When she spoke, her voice was low, hurried, abashed.  “Seven years ago,” she said, “my first husband sued me for divorce, and named Dicky as a co-respondent.”

I sprang from my seat.

“Oh, no, no, no,” I cried, hardly knowing what I said.  “Surely not.  I remember reading the old story when you were married to Mr. Underwood, three years ago—­I’ve always admired your work so much that I’ve read every line about you—­and surely Dicky’s name wasn’t mentioned.  I would have remembered it when I met him, I know.”

“There, there.”  She was on her feet beside me and with a gentle yet compelling hand put me back in my chair.  Her voice had the same tone a mother would use to a grieving child.  “Dicky’s name wasn’t mentioned when the story was printed the last time, because at the time the divorce was granted, Mr. Morten withdrew the accusation that he had made against him.”

“Why?” The question left my lips almost without volition.  I sensed something tragic, full of meaning for me behind the statement she had made.

She did not answer me for a minute or two.

“I can only answer that question on your word of honor not to tell Dicky what I am going to tell you,” she said.  “It is something he suspects, but which I would never confirm.”

She paused expectantly.  “Upon honor, of course,” I answered simply.

She rose and moved swiftly toward one of the built-in bookcases.  I saw that she put her hand upon one of the sections and pulled upon it.  To my astonishment it moved toward her, and I saw that behind it was a cleverly constructed wall safe.  She turned the combination, opened the door and took from the safe an inlaid box which, as she came toward me, I saw was made of rare old woods.