"Two years ago," she began abruptly, plunging into her story, "after our--after you left home, an Englishman, a soldier returning from the East incapacitated by a fever, and travelling for his health, craved a night's rest at my father's house. As you know, in a country like ours, where decent inns are few and far between, travellers are always welcome. It was the hot season, we pressed him to stay for a day or two, he accepted, and a return of the fever made him our guest for months. He needed constant nursing--I--I was the only white woman on the plantation." "I see," said Stanley. "You nursed him, he recovered, was grateful, paid you homage." "Remember I was brought up in a convent. I was so alone and so unhappy. He told me you had married. I believed him--trusted him. "Quite so. His name was Darcy. He is a liar." "He is--my husband." "A gentleman--I suppose?" "The world accords him that title," she replied coldly. "I understand-- He's a man of means?" "He has nothing but his pay." "And you--but that question is unnecessary. Señor De Costa's name and estates are well known--and you are his only child." "Yes, you're right," she burst out. "It's my money, my cursed money! Why do men call it a blessing! Oh, if I could trust him, I'd give him every penny of it. But I cannot, it's the one hold I have on him, and because I will not beggar myself to supply means for his extravagances he dares----" "Not personal violence, surely?" "To put me away somewhere--in a retreat, he calls it. That means a madhouse." "My dear Madame Darcy!" "Call me Inez De Costa, I will _not_ have that name of Darcy, I hate it." "My dear Inez, then; your fears are groundless; they can't put sane people in madhouses any longer in England, except in cheap fiction--it's against the law." "It's very easy for you to sit there and talk of law. You, who are protected by your office, but for me, for a poor woman whose liberty is threatened!" "I assure you that you're in no such danger as you apprehend." "But if I were put away, you would help me?" "You shall suffer no injustice that we can prevent. You may return home and rest easy on that score." "I shall never return to that man." "Why not return to your father?" "Would that I could!" she exclaimed, her eyes brimming with tears. "But how can I, with no money and no friends?" "I thought you said----" began the Secretary, but his interruption was lost in the flow of her eloquence. "I've not a penny. I can cash no cheque that's not made to his order, and to come to you I must degrade myself by borrowing a sovereign from my maid. I've travelled third-class!" The Secretary smiled at the ante-climax, saying: "Many people of large means travel third-class habitually." "But not a De Costa," she broke in, and then continued her narration with renewed ardour.