“How did you hear?” he asked.

“Mr. Keith—­he came to me and told me.”

“I wish he had not done it.  I mean, I did not want you troubled.  You were not to blame.  You were deceived.”

“Oh, don’t say that!  I shall never cease to thank him.  He tore the veil away, and I saw what a heartless, vain, silly fool I have been.”  Norman put his hand on her soothingly.  “But I have never forgotten that I was your wife, nor ceased to love you,” she went on vehemently.

“I believe it.”

“I have come to confess everything to you—­all my folly—­all my extravagance—­my insane folly.  But what I said just now is true:  I have never forgotten that I was your wife.”

Norman, with his arm supporting her, reassured her with comforting words, and, sustained by his confidence, she told him of her folly in trusting Ferdy Wickersham:  of her giving him her money—­of everything.

“Can you forgive me?” she asked after her shamefaced recital.

“I will never think of that again,” said Norman, “and if I do, it will be with gratitude that they have played their part in doing away with the one great sorrow of my life and bringing back the happiness of my youth, the one great blessing that life holds for me.”

“I have come to take you home,” she said; “to ask you to come back, if you will but forgive me.”  She spoke humbly.

Norman’s face gave answer even before he could master himself to speak.  He stretched out his hand, and drew her to him.  “I am at home now.  Wherever you are is my home.”

When Norman came out of his private office, there was such a change in him that the clerks who had remained at the bank thought that he must have received some great aid from the lady who had been closeted with him so long.  He had a few brief words with the cashier, explaining that he would be back at the bank before eight o’clock in the morning, and saying good night, hurried to the door after Mrs. Wentworth.  Handing her into the carriage, he ordered the coachman to drive home, and, springing in after her, he closed the door behind him, and they drove off.

Keith, meantime, had not been idle.  After leaving Mrs. Wentworth, he drove straight to a detective agency.  Fortunately the chief was in, and Keith was ushered into his private office immediately.  He was a quiet-looking, stout man, with a gray moustache and keen dark eyes.  He might have been a moderately successful merchant or official, but for the calmness of his manner and the low tones of his voice.  Keith came immediately to the point.

“I have a piece of important work on hand this evening,” he said, “of a private and delicate nature.”  The detective’s look was acquiescent.  “Could I get Dennison?”

“I think so.”

Keith stated his case.  At the mention of Wickersham’s name a slight change—­the very slightest—­flickered across the detective’s calm face.  Keith could not tell whether it was mere surprise or whether it was gratification.