"Yes, the night I left Woodlea. I went up to town; I saw her, and I was forced to tell her what I feared would break her heart." "What did you tell her?" "I told her that the man she had trusted--the man that she had loved, and believed to be her husband--for we were married--had yet deceived her." "What do you mean? How did you deceive her?" "Because when I was a very young man, almost a lad, I had hung a millstone about my neck; I had married another woman, an actress, and I knew that this now must come to May's ears." "John Temple!" exclaimed Mrs. Temple, starting back. "You may well look startled, yet this was so. I had induced this poor girl to leave her home; to go to some old friends of mine, and from their house we were married." "When you said you were going abroad?" "We did go abroad immediately after our marriage. I intended it to be a secret marriage until the time came I hoped to be able to obtain a divorce from the woman I had first married. Until I met May I had not cared nor thought of this. I made her an allowance, and never made any inquiries about her life. But the nephew of the ladies with whom I had left May got to know this woman, this actress, Kathleen Weir--" "Kathleen Weir!" "Yes, Kathleen Weir; and I knew after you had discovered through young Henderson where May was that the whole story could no longer be kept a secret. But I believed she cared for me too well to part from me--" Here Temple's voice broke and faltered, and he paused. "But she did part from you?" asked Mrs. Temple, quickly. "I will tell you," went on John Temple, speaking with a great effort. "I took her to an hotel, and I told her the truth, and after the first shock, which nearly killed her, was over, I thought she had become reconciled to the idea. I said we should never part; that I would take her to Australia, anywhere, and devote my whole life to her, and that I hoped some day to be free. I left her for a short time to get some things that she required before we went away, as she did not wish to see her father, and--and when I left her she said we could not live apart. I was not away more than an hour, but when I returned to the hotel she was gone. She had left no note, no address--not a word--and from that day to this I have heard nothing," and Temple covered his face with his hand, deeply affected. "But you sought her, surely? You made inquiries?" "Every effort was made to find her. I employed the police, I wandered about the streets of London day and night, but it was all in vain. One thing only I heard--that someone like her, on the night she disappeared from the hotel, had taken a cab and asked to be driven to Westminster bridge--" "But surely you did not think--" "What could I think?" went on John Temple, with deep emotion. "I believed she had loved me too well to leave me, and--and perhaps in her misery--her despair--"