She said nothing for a long time. When she spoke it was in a voice of resigned despair. “What do you intend to do?” In a cold, hard voice he delivered his inflexible sentence. “From this day, from this hour, we are absolute strangers, and this roof can no longer shelter us both. I am not going to turn you out penniless—for your own small income is insufficient even for necessities—I will pay the penalty of my folly in having married you. Through my solicitors I will pay you an income sufficient to maintain you in decent comfort, but not enough for extravagance or for the maintenance of unscrupulous pensioners.” She rose from her chair, half-tearful, half-defiant, but she did not attempt to dispute the justice of the sentence pronounced upon her. “When do you wish me to go?” He handed her two envelopes, one containing the unsigned letter which he had opened, the other a bundle of notes. “As soon as possible. Eat your last meal in this house if you wish. Here is something for immediate necessities; my solicitors will see to the rest. Take what you want for to-day and to-night; the rest of your property I will send later on to any address you give me.” “And what is to be said to the world?” she interrupted in a broken voice. “Ah, I had forgotten that, but it is already cut and dried in my mind. We will both tell the same tale; it will make curiosity silent if it does not altogether satisfy it. For years we have led an unhappy life through incompatibility of ideas and temperament; it has at last culminated in this. There is one other thing before we part for ever. That other letter which you will read is one addressed to you which I opened. It is from the friend of your youth, Alma Buckley, who brought up this impostor, and confirms the knowledge which I had already gained from another source.” At those terrible words she seemed on the point of collapsing, but recovered herself with a strong effort. “I will go as soon as possible. You must hate the sight of me, I am sure of that.” He did not contradict her statement. He was as pitiless as he had once been considerate and generous. “When I believed that Richard Croxton had proved ungrateful and betrayed the trust I reposed in him, I told you what I then said to him. I repeat those words to you. I shall return here in about a couple of hours. When I re-enter this house, let me find it empty of your presence.” He turned on his heel, unlocked the door and passed out, leaving the wretched woman alone to confront the ruin of her life, to face the punishment of her treachery. CHAPTER XXIII RICHARD IS CLEARED