‘Do you mean to tell me that my husband is dead?’ asked Janet, when she had brought her visitor in and shut the door, looking him full in the face with grave earnest eyes. Geoffrey quailed beneath that searching gaze. In this crisis, which involved the dearest wish of his heart, he had become the veriest child. ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘he is dead. It is a most extraordinary story, and as I have no evidence to prove my statement, you may be inclined to doubt me. Yet I pledge my honour—’ ‘I shall not doubt your honour,’ said Janet, with a superb smile, ‘but I may doubt your discretion. How do you know that my husband is dead?’ ‘I met him in America, and heard of his death there—heard it on the highest possible authority.’ ‘You met him in America. Why did you not tell me that at Stillmington?’ ‘Because I had at that time no means of identifying Matchi, the man I met in the West, with Mr. Vandeleur. I have seen your husband’s portrait within the last fortnight, and I can take my oath that Mr. Vandeleur and the man I knew in America are one and the same.’ ‘Where could you see my husband’s portrait?’ asked Janet incredulously. ‘Lady Baker showed me a photograph of a group in which you and Mr. Vandeleur both appear.’ ‘Have you no other reason to suppose that this American traveller, whom you call Matchi, and my husband are the same, except the evidence of a photograph?’ asked Janet, somewhat contemptuously. ‘What more common than an accidental resemblance between two men who are utter strangers to each other?’ ‘Not such a likeness as that which I am speaking of; nor is a genius for music the commonest thing in the world. The violin-playing of the man in the western pine-forest exactly resembled that which Lady Baker described to me.’ ‘What,’ cried Janet, with a wounded air, ‘you have been taking Lady Baker into your confidence?’ ‘Forgive me, Janet. I am bent upon bringing this matter to a happy issue. Lady Baker is your true friend. She bitterly reproaches herself for her part in bringing about your unhappy marriage; she went to Melksham in search of you, when she accidentally learned that Mr. Vandeleur had been seen there, and was deeply grieved at arriving too late to find you.’ ‘She is very good,’ answered Janet, with a sigh. ‘And now tell me about this man you met in America. Tell me everything, without reserve.’ Without reserve; that would be rather difficult. Not for worlds—no, not even to secure his own happiness—could Geoffrey Hossack betray his friend. He told his story as best he could; but in his fear of saying too much, stumbled a little over the details. Altogether the story had a garbled air, and before he came to the end he saw plainly enough that Janet was unconvinced.