"Good God!" Francis Ledsam exclaimed at last, suddenly realising
his whereabouts. "Do you mean to affirm solemnly that what you
have been telling me is the truth?"

The woman continued to button her gloves. "It is the truth," she
said.

Ledsam sat up and looked around him. He was a little dazed. He
had almost the feeling of a man recovering from the influence of
some anaesthetic. Before his eyes were still passing visions of
terrible deeds, of naked, ugly passion, of man's unscrupulous
savagery. During those few minutes he had been transported to
New York and Paris, London and Rome. Crimes had been spoken of
which made the murder for which Oliver Hilditch had just been
tried seem like a trifling indiscretion. Hard though his
mentality, sternly matter-of-fact as was his outlook, he was
still unable to fully believe in himself, his surroundings, or in
this woman who had just dropped a veil over her ashen cheeks.
Reason persisted in asserting itself.

"But if you knew all this," he demanded, "why on earth didn't you
come forward and give evidence?"

"Because," she answered calmly, as she rose to her feet, "my
evidence would not have been admissible. I am Oliver Hilditch's
wife."