know, then, that I am--that I am married--to him?"

"Quite. I know all that; but it is no marriage." He rose to his feet
slowly, dropping the cigarette from his lips as he did so. "Yes," he
continued, "and I know that you prefer Shon McGann to Pretty Pierre."

She spread out her hands appealingly.

"But you are my wife, not his. Listen: do you know what I shall do?
I will tell you in two hours. It is now eight o'clock. At ten o'clock
Shon McGann will meet me at the Saints' Repose. Then you shall know....
Ah, it is a pity! Shon was my good friend, but this spoils all that.
Wine--it has danger; cards--there is peril in that sport; women--they
make trouble most of all."

"O God," she piteously said, "what did I do? There was no sin in me.
I was your faithful wife, though you were cruel to me. You left me,
cheated me, brought this upon me. It is you that has done this
wickedness, not I." She buried her face in her hands, falling on her
knees beside the chair.

He bent above her: "You loved the young avocat better, eight years ago."

She sprang to her feet. "Ah, now I understand,' she said. "That was why
you quarrelled with me; why you deserted me. You were not man enough to
say what made you so much the--so wicked and hard, so--"

"Be thankful, Lucy, that I did not kill you then," he interjected.

"But it is a lie," she cried; "a lie!"