"No," I said in deep sympathy, taking her hand. "Bear up against all these troubles. Let me assist you as your friend." "But you cannot," she declared despairingly, tears welling in her eyes. "You can only assist me by keeping my secret. Will you promise me to do that?" "Most certainly," I replied. "But I want to do more. I want to penetrate the veil of mystery which seems to surround your marriage. I want--" "You can never do that," she interrupted quickly. "I have tried and tried, but have failed." "Why?" "Because, strange though it may seem, I am entirely unaware of the identity of my husband. I have never seen him." I was silent. Should I reveal to her the truth? She could not believe me, if I did. What proof could I show her? "And you do not know his name?" "No; I do not even know his name," she answered. "All I know is that by this marriage I am debarred for ever from all love and happiness. I have nothing to live for--nothing! Each day increases the mystery, and each day brings to me only bitterness and despair. Ah! how a woman may suffer and still live." "Have you no means by which to discover the identity of your unknown husband?" I inquired. "None whatever," she answered. "I know that I am married--beyond that, nothing." "And who else is in possession of this secret?" I inquired. "Nora." "No one else?" "No one--to my knowledge." "But you are, I understand, engaged to marry Cyril Chetwode," I said, anxious to get the truth. "How can you marry him if you are really a wife?" "Ah! that's just it!" she cried. "I am the most miserable girl in all the world. Everything is so hazy, so enshrouded in mystery. I am married, and yet I have no husband." "But is it not perhaps best that, under the circumstances, you should be apart," I said. "He may be old, or ugly, or a man you could never love." "I dread to think of it," she said hoarsely. "Sometimes I wonder what he is really like, and who he really is." "And, at the same time, you love Cyril Chetwode?" I said, the words almost choking me. I saw she loved that young ape, and my heart sank within me. "We are very good friends," she answered. "But you love him? Why not admit it?" I said. "And if I do--if I do, it is useless--all useless," she murmured. "Yes," I observed, "it is useless. You are already married." "No!" she cried, holding up her tiny hand as though to stay my words. "Do not let us talk of it. I cannot bear to think. The truth hangs like a shadow over my life." "Does Chetwode know?" I inquired. "Is he aware that you can never be his?" "He knows nothing. He loves me, and believes that one day we shall many. Indeed, now that he has succeeded to the estate, he sees no reason why our marriage should be delayed, and is pressing me for an answer." Her breast heaved and fell quickly beneath her starched blouse. I saw how agitated she was, and how, with difficulty, she was restraining her tears. "What answer can you give him?"