Dacre nodded. "The fellow who writes to you every month. Well? What of
him?"

Monck's steady fingers detached and unfolded a letter. "You had better
read for yourself," he said, and held it out.

But curiously Dacre hung back as if unwilling to touch it.

"Can't you tell me what all the fuss is about?" he said irritably.

Monck's hand remained inflexibly extended. He spoke, a jarring note in
his voice. "Oh yes, I can tell you. But you had better see for yourself
too. It concerns you very nearly. It was written in Charthurst Prison
nearly six weeks ago, where a woman who calls herself your wife is
undergoing a term of imprisonment for forgery."

"Damnation!" Ralph Dacre actually staggered as if he had received a blow
between the eyes. But almost in the next moment he recovered himself,
and uttered a quivering laugh. "Man alive! You are not fool enough to
believe such a cock-and-bull story as that!" he said. "And you have come
all this way in this fancy get-up to tell me! You must be mad!"

Monck was still holding out the letter. "You had better see for
yourself," he reiterated. "It is damnably circumstantial."

"I tell you it's an infernal lie!" flung back Dacre furiously. "There is
no woman on this earth who has any claim on me--except Stella. Why
should I read it? I tell you it's nothing but damned fabrication--a
tissue of abominable falsehood!"