Lane rose to go. Later on he would have to say more to Mr. Morrice, but to-night he had said enough. “I think you told me over the telephone that your wife was away. I suppose you have said nothing to her yet?” “Nothing,” answered Morrice, with a face like granite. “I have not had time. It was only to-day that I got the full amount of proof I wanted. If it had only concerned itself with one article of jewellery, or a couple at the outside, I might have thought she had sold them to defray some gambling debt, some bills that she was ashamed to tell me about.” “Quite so, Mr. Morrice. But I take it when your wife returns you will confront her and extort a confession.” Nothing could have been grimmer than the husband’s expression as he answered. It was easy to see he would be as hard as flint when his righteous wrath was aroused—pitiless, unforgiving. “Of course. And please, Mr. Lane, do not speak of her as my wife. The law, I know, will not sever the tie for such a cause as this, but so far as I am concerned that tie is already severed. She returns to-morrow, and in another twenty-four hours the same roof will not shelter us. I shall not leave her to starve; I shall make her a decent allowance, and she can live out the rest of her shameful life in the society of friends congenial to her—this scoundrel Clayton-Brookes and the rascal whose aunt she pretends to be—perhaps the woman Alma Buckley, of whom I have never heard.” “And whom she visits secretly,” interposed Lane. “I have had her watched and know that for a fact.” “Ah, I am not surprised; in fact, nothing would surprise me now. Mark you, I shall not publish to the world the story of her treachery. Why should I fill the mouths of curious fools? It would not undo my wrongs nor alleviate my bitter humiliation. I shall agree with her to concoct some tale of incompatibility extending over many years and culminating in a separation absolutely necessary for the peace of mind of both. The truth will be known for certain to two people, you and myself, perhaps a third—my niece Rosabelle Sheldon. You, I am convinced, Mr. Lane, are a man of discretion and will keep your knowledge to yourself.” Lane assured him that the secrets of all his clients were sacred to him. One last question he put before he left. “You will make her confess who this so-called Archie Brookes really is?” And Morrice’s voice was as hard as iron as he answered: “You may rely upon me to do my best. Good-night, sir. What I have learned through your masterly activities has been inexpressibly painful, but thank heaven I know at last the foes in my own household. I shall no longer live in a fool’s paradise.” Shortly after Lane’s departure he went to his room, but try as he would, sleep refused her kindly solace. The man had been shaken to the very foundation of his being. On his way out Lane found Rosabelle waiting for him in the hall as on a previous occasion; she had heard of his visit from one of the servants.