Mildred uttered a cry; but the two men continued to look each at the other, with impassive countenances. "Your only wife is the woman who has been in the private insane asylum of Doctor Rivers at Pueblo, Colorado, for the past eleven years. For about twenty years before that she was in the Delavan private asylum near Denver. You could not divorce her under the laws of Colorado. The divorce you got in Nevada was fraudulent." "That's a lie," said the general coldly. Keith went on, as if he had not heard: "You will not annoy this lady again. And you will stop bribing Stanley Baird's wife to make a fool of herself. And you will stop buying houses in the blocks where Baird owns real estate, and moving colored families into them." "I tell you that about my divorce is a lie," replied Siddall. "I can prove it," said Keith. "And I can prove that you knew it before you married your second wife." For the first time Siddall betrayed at the surface a hint of how hard he was hit. His skin grew bright yellow; wrinkles round his eyes and round the base of his nose sprang into sudden prominence. "I see you know what I mean--that attempt to falsify the record at Carson City," said Keith. He opened the screen door for Mildred to pass in. He followed her, and the door closed behind them. They went into the drawing-room. He dropped into an easy chair, crossed his legs, leaned his head back indolently--a favorite attitude of his. "How long have you known?" said she. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement. "Oh, a good many years," replied he. "It was one of those accidental bits of information a man runs across in knocking about. As soon as Baird told me about you, I had the thing looked up, quietly. I was going up to see him to-morrow--about the negroes and Mrs. Baird's suit." "Does Stanley know?" inquired she. "No," said Keith. "Not necessary. Never will be. If you like, you can have the marriage annulled without notoriety. But that's not necessary, either." After a long silence, she said: "What does this make out of me?" "You mean, what would be thought of you, if it were known?" inquired he. "Well, it probably wouldn't improve your social position." "I am disgraced," said she, curiously rather than emotionally. "Would be, if it were known," corrected he, "and if you are nothing but a woman without money looking for a husband. If you happened to be a singer or an actress, it would add to your reputation--make you more talked about." "But I am not an actress or a singer." "On the other hand, I should say you didn't amount to much socially. Except in Hanging Rock, of course--if there is still a Hanging Rock. Don't worry about your reputation. Fussing and fretting about your social position doesn't help toward a career." "Naturally, you take it coolly. But you can hardly expect me to," cried she.