"Oh, but I'll be hanged if she is. She's mine--mine hard and fast, by
jingo. There's some little misunderstanding here. Keep your temper,
baronet, and let us clear it up. _I_ married Miss Ethel Dobb in
Glasgow, on the thirteenth of May, two years ago. Now, Sir Victor
Catheron, when did _you_ marry her."

Sir Victor made no answer; his face, as he stood supporting his wife,
was ghastly with rage and fear. Ethel lay like one dead; Juan Catheron,
still eminently good-humored and self-possessed, turned to his sister:

"Look here, Inez, this is how it stands: Miss Dobb was only fifteen
when I met her first. It was in Scotland. We fell in love with each
other; it was the suddenest case of spoons you ever saw. We exchanged
pictures, we vowed vows, we did the 'meet me by moonlight alone'
business--you know the programme yourself. The time came to part--Ethel
to return to school, I to sail for the China Sea--and the day we left
Scotland we went into church and were married. There! I don't deny we
parted at the church door, and have never met since, but she's my wife;
mine, baronet, by Jove! since the first marriage is the legal one.
Come, now! You _don't_ mean to say that you've been and married
another fellow's wife. 'Pon my word, you know I shouldn't have
believed it of Ethel."

"She is reviving," Inez said.

She spoke quietly, but her eyes were shining like black stars. She
knew her brother for a liar of old, but what if this were true? what
if her vengeance were here so soon? She held a glass of iced champagne
to the white lips.