and helpless. He was conquered, and he knew it.

Calmly Monck continued. "There is not much doubt that she holds proof of
the marriage, and she will probably try to establish it as soon as she
is free."

"She will never get anything more out of me," said Dacre. His voice was
low and sullen. There was that in the other man's attitude that stilled
his fury, rendering it futile, even in a fashion ridiculous.

"I am not thinking of you." Monck's coldness had in it something brutal.
"You are not the only person concerned. But the fact remains--this woman
is your wife. You may as well tell the truth about it as not--since I
know."

Dacre jerked his head like an angry bull, but he submitted. "Oh well, if
you must have it, I suppose she was--once," he said. "She caught me when
I was a kid of twenty-one. She was a bad 'un even then, and it didn't
take me long to find it out. I could have divorced her several times
over, only the marriage was a secret and I didn't want my people to
know. The last I heard of her was that her name was among the drowned on
a wrecked liner going to America. That was six years ago or more; and I
was thankful to be rid of her. I regarded her death as one of the
biggest slices of luck I'd ever had. And now--curse her!"--he ended
savagely--"she has come to life again!"

He glanced at Monck with the words, almost as if seeking sympathy; but
Monck's face was masklike in its unresponsiveness. He said nothing
whatever.