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For a moment she trembled violently and ran her fingers through her golden hair distractedly, but she partly regained her composure, came forward and told the servant to show him into the room. She was a woman of instant determination. She drew the curtains closer, so that the room would be almost dark to one entering from the sunlight. Then she stood with her back to the light of the window. He saw a figure standing in the shadow, came forward and bowed, not at first looking closely at the face.

“I have come from your husband,” he said. “My name is Mark Telford”–

“Yes, I know,” she interrupted.

He started, came a little nearer and looked curiously at her. “Ida–Ida Royal!” he exclaimed. “Are you–you–John Gladney’s wife?”

“He is my husband.”

Telford folded his arms, and, though pale and haggard, held himself firmly. “I could not have wished this for my worst enemy,” he said at last “Gladney and I have been more than brothers.”

“In return for having”–

“Hush!” he interrupted. “Do you think anything you may say can make me feel worse than I do? I tell you we have lain under the same blankets month in, month out, and he saved my life.”

“What is the message you bring?” she asked.

“He begs you to live with him again, you and your child. The property he settled on you for your lifetime he will settle on your child. Until this past few days he was himself poor. To-day he is rich–money got honestly, as you may guess.”

“And if I am not willing to be reconciled?”

“There was no condition.”

“Do you know all the circumstances? Did he tell you?”

“No, he did not tell me. He said that he left you suddenly for a reason, and when he wished to return you would not have him. That was all. He never spoke but kindly of you.”

“He was a good man.”

“He is a good man.”

“I will tell you why he left me. He learned, no matter how, that I had not been married, as I said I had.”

She looked up, as if expecting him to speak. He said nothing, but stood with eyes fixed on the floor.

“I admitted, too, that I kept alive the memory of a man who had played an evil part in my life; that I believed I cared for him still, more than for my husband.”

“Ida, for God’s sake, you do not mean”–

“Yes, I meant you then. But when he went away, when he proved himself so noble, I changed. I learned to hate the memory of the other man. But he came back too soon. I said things madly–things I did not mean. He went again. And then afterward I knew that I loved him.”

“I am glad of that, upon my soul!” said Telford, letting go a long breath.

She smiled strangely and with a kind of hardness. “A few days ago I had determined to find him if I could, and to that end I intended to ask a man who had proved himself a friend, to learn, if possible, where he was in America. I came here to see him and my daughter.”

“Who is the man?”

“Mr. George Hagar.”

A strange light shot from Telford’s eyes. “Hagar is a fortunate man,” he said. Then dreamily: “You have a daughter. I wish to God that–that ours had lived.”

“You did not seem to care when I wrote and told you that she was dead.”

“I do not think that I cared then. Besides”–

“Besides you loved that other woman, and my child was nothing to you,” she said with low scorn. “I have seen her in London. I am glad–glad that she hates you. I know she does,” she added. “She would never forgive you. She was too good for you, and you ruined her life.”

He was very quiet and spoke in a clear, meditative voice. “You are right. I think she hates me. But you are wrong, too, for she has forgiven me.”