"She died yesterday afternoon; an accident had occurred the night before, and she overturned a lamp and was terribly burned. I was with her when she died; I saw her die." "Good God! I can not believe it!" exclaimed Temple. "It is nevertheless true--and I, knowing of her marriage to you--knowing also of your other marriage--" "What have you got to say to me, sir?" interrupted Temple, quickly. "I am denying nothing; but what have you got to say?" "This," answered Webster, with quiet dignity. "When I heard of your first marriage I knew that you had also contracted a second marriage, and that--the young lady was living under my aunts' roof." "Well?" said Temple, sharply. "But I could not--I did not feel that I was called upon to tell this--to destroy her happiness." Unconsciously Webster's voice faltered as he uttered the last few words, and Temple looked at him with eager anxiety. "But you yourself told the secret," went on Webster, recovering himself; "you told this young girl what well-nigh broke her heart--that she was no wife--that she was--" "Be silent! How dare you speak thus!" cried John Temple, hoarsely and passionately. "I speak for a purpose," continued Webster; "you told her of your early marriage to Miss Weir; and in her despair, her sudden shame and anguish, she left you, never intending to see you more." John Temple sprang forward; he grasped Webster's arm. "Do you know anything?" he gasped out. "Do you know if--she lives?" "Yes, Mr. Temple, she lives. That night, after she left the hotel in her despair, by chance I saw her; she looked so ill, so strange, that I, knowing her story, followed her. I followed her to Westminster bridge, and then--when she was very ill--when she was unconscious, I took her to St. Phillip's Hospital." "And she is living? Oh! thank God! Thank God!" There was no doubting his great thankfulness, and Webster's voice softened a little as he went on. "She is living, and now nearly well. She went through a long and dangerous illness, and at times we almost despaired of her life. But at last her youth reasserted itself, though only on one condition did she struggle feebly back to life. And this condition was that her very existence had to be kept an absolute secret; she wished everyone to believe her dead." For a moment John Temple did not speak; his lips quivered; he turned away his head. "I promised faithfully to keep her secret," continued Webster; "no one knew at the hospital who she was but myself, and I have kept it until now--until after the death of Kathleen Weir." "And she left me to endure all this misery--a bitter, unending remorse and regret," now said John Temple, in a broken, agitated voice. "She--who said she loved me--who said that we could not live apart--it seems that she could." "Mr. Temple, you are unjust."