"I can’t tell you, dear. I am not at liberty to tell you.... And after all, it doesn’t matter.... He died—suddenly—a week later.... My aunt was ill at the time and I was with her.... A letter was handed to her by an orderly. It was from Mr. Grismer.... From a dead man! What she read in it seemed to be a terrific shock to her. She was sick and weak, but she got out of bed and telephoned to her attorneys in New York.... I was frightened.... It was a most dreadful night for us both.... And ... and my aunt died of it, I think—the shock and her illness combined.... She died a week later.... I took our studio with Helen.... I saw Oswald every day. He had inherited a great deal of money. We went about.... And, Jim, the very devil was in me to roam everywhere with him and see things and explore the part of the world we could cover in his touring car. All the gypsy instinct born in me, all the tendency to irresponsible wandering and idle pleasure suddenly seemed to develop and demand satisfaction.... Oswald was a dear. He was in love with me; I knew it. He didn’t want to go on those escapades with me; but I bullied him into it.... And it got to a point beyond all bounds; the more recklessly we went about the keener my delight in risking everything for the sake of unconventional amusement. Twice we were caught out so far from New York that he had to drive all night to get into town. And then, what was to be expected happened: our car broke down when it meant a night away from the studio with Oswald. And the very deuce was to pay, too, for in the Ten Eyck Hotel at Albany we ran into friends—girls I knew in school and their parents—friends of dad’s! "Oh, Jim, I was panic-stricken. We _had_ to stay there, too. I—there was nothing to do but present Oswald as my husband.... That was a terrible night. We had two rooms and a connecting parlour. We talked it over; I cried most of the time. Then I wrote out that cablegram to you.... Oh, Jim, he is a dear. You don’t know him as I do. He knew I didn’t love him and he was in love with me.... Well, we had to do something. "He went out to the Fort Orange Club and got a man he knew. Then, with this man as witness, we told each other that we’d marry each other.... Then Oswald went away with his friend and I didn’t see him again until next day, when he called for me with the car.... And that is all there was of my marriage.... And now," she sobbed, "I’m in love with you and I—I——" She broke down hopelessly. He drew her close to him, holding her tightly. "There is m-more," she faltered, "but I c-can’t tell it. It’s c-confidential—a matter of honour. I want to be what dad and you expect of me. I do want to be honourable. That is why I can’t tell you another person’s secret.... It would be dishonourable. And even if I told you, I’d be afraid to ask him for my freedom——" "You mean he would not let you divorce him?"