The solemn fact that she was being put under oath meant nothing to her.  This, too, was slurred and mumbled.  She found herself, trembling, answering questions now from her counsel, now from the judge; and it is to be doubted to this day whether either heard her answers.  Most convenient and considerate questions they were.  When and where she was married, how long she had lived with her husband, what happened when they ceased to live together, and had he failed ever since to contribute to her support?  Mercifully, Mr. Beckwith was in the habit of coaching his words beforehand.  A reputable citizen of Salomon City was produced to prove her residence, and somebody cried out something, not loudly, in which she heard the name of Spence mentioned twice.  The judge said, “Take your decree,” and picked up a roll of papers and walked away.  Her knees became weak, she looked around her dizzily, and beheld the triumphant professional smile of the Honourable Dave Beckwith.

“It didn’t hurt much, did it?” he asked.  “Allow me to congratulate you.”

“Is it—­is it all over?” she said, quite dazed.

“Just like that,” he said.  “You’re free.”

“Free!” The word rang in her ears as she drove back to the little house that had been her home.  The Honourable Dave lifted his felt hat as he handed her out of the carriage, and said he would call again in the evening to see if he could do anything further for her.  Mathilde, who had been watching from the window, opened the door, and led her mistress into the parlour.

“It’s—­it’s all over, Mathilde,” she said.

“Mon dieu, madame,” said Mathilde, “c’est simple comme bonjour!”