“My dear fellow,” interposed George quickly, “you underrate Professor Keredec’s shrewdness.  His plans are not so simple as you think.  He knows that my cousin Louise never obtained a divorce from her husband.”

“What?” I said, not immediately comprehending his meaning.

“I say, Mrs. Harman never obtained a divorce.”

“Are you delirious?” I gasped.

“It’s the truth; she never did.”

“I saw a notice of it at the time.  ‘A notice?’ I saw a hundred!”

“No.  What you saw was that she had made an application for divorce.  Her family got her that far and then she revolted.  The suit was dropped.”

“It is true, indeed,” said Keredec.  “The poor boy was on the other side of the world, and he thought it was granted.  He had been bad before, but from that time he cared nothing what became of him.  That was the reason this Spanish woman—­”

I turned upon him sharply.  “You knew it?”

“It is a year that I have known it; when his estate was—­”

“Then why didn’t you tell me last night?”

“My dear sir, I could not in his presence, because it is one thing I dare not let him know.  This Spanish woman is so hideous, her claim upon him is so horrible to him I could not hope to control him—­he would shout it out to her that she cannot call him husband.  God knows what he would do!”

“Well, why shouldn’t he shout it out to her?”

“You do not understand,” George interposed again, “that what Professor Keredec risked for his ‘poor boy,’ in returning to France, was a trial on the charge of bigamy!”

The professor recoiled from the definite brutality.  “My dear sir!  It is not possible that such a thing can happen.”

“I conceive it very likely to happen,” said George, “unless you get him out of the country before the lady now installed here as his wife discovers the truth.”

“But she must not!” Keredec lifted both hands toward Ward appealingly; they trembled, and his voice betrayed profound agitation.  “She cannot!  She has never suspected such a thing; there is nothing that could make her suspect it!”

“One particular thing would be my telling her,” said Ward quietly.

“Never!” cried the professor, stepping back from him.  “You could not do that!”

“I not only could, but I will, unless you get him out of the country—­ and quickly!”

“George!” I exclaimed, coming forward between them.  “This won’t do at all.  You can’t—­”

“That’s enough,” he said, waving me back, and I saw that his hand was shaking, too, like Keredec’s.  His face had grown very white; but he controlled himself to speak with a coolness that made what he said painfully convincing.  “I know what you think,” he went on, addressing me, “but you’re wrong.  It isn’t for myself.  When I sailed for New York in the spring I thought there was a chance that she would