“Too late?”

“Yes, or she would never have dared.  Besides she might not have wanted to.  She didn’t know.  I never had the courage to tell her.  But if the letter had come in time—­”

She faltered, growing confused under his intense gaze.

“In time for what?” he prompted patiently.

She brushed the question aside.

“Did you believe her when she said that?”

“Yes.  Why should I have doubted?  It seemed to be the end.  I fainted on the doorstep.  A long illness followed, when it was at its worst a friend came—­helped me to pull out.  When I was well again, I searched for your mother, employed detectives, but we never found her.  Neither did we find anything upon which to hang a doubt of what she had told me.”

“No.  She was very clever.”

“But why? For God’s sake, why?  Why should she lie to me?  I had never harmed her.  We were married.  I could give you a home.  She knew it.  I told her.  Why should she do this senseless, horrible thing?”

She looked at him with wide eyes and stammered,

“Don’t—­don’t you know?”

A sense of some hitherto undreamed horror came to him with that stammering whisper.  The spur of it brought some of his firmness back.

“I do not know.  There must have been a reason.  You must tell me.”

He forced her, through sheer will, to lift her eyes to his.  They were startled and sullen.  With a start he saw, what he had missed before, that this woman, his wife, was a stranger.  But he had himself well in hand now and his gaze did not falter.  There was no escaping its demands.  Her answer came in a little burst of defiance.

“Yes, there was a reason.  You may as well know it.  Your letter and your coming were both too late.  I was married.”

The doctor was not quick enough for this—­

“Yes, of course you were, but—­”

“Oh, not to you!  Can’t you understand?  I was married to another man....  You need not look like that!  What did you expect?  I warned you.  I knew I could never defy mother.  I told you so.  But you said it wouldn’t be long—­that she need never know.  And I waited and waited.  I could have married more than once but I wouldn’t.  I faced mother and said I wouldn’t.  But every time it was harder.  I couldn’t keep it up.  And you didn’t come.  Then when he came and we thought he was so rich she made me marry him.  She made me.  I thought you were never coming back anyway.  I wrote you once telling you to come.  You didn’t answer.”

She paused breathless but he could find nothing to say.  It seemed a small thing that the letter must have missed him somewhere, his whole mind was absorbed in trying to comprehend one stupendous fact.  The puzzle had shifted into place indeed.

“I thought you didn’t care any more,” her words raced as if eager to be done, “and mother gave me no peace.  You will never understand how terrified I was of mother.  And he seemed so kind and was going to be rich.  He owned part of a gold mine—­mother was sure it would mean millions.  But it didn’t.  Mother was fooled there!” with a gleam of malice.  “The mine turned out to be worthless—­after we were married.”