The pale yellow sun struggling in through the thick green panes, fell in slanting rays across the carpetless room, and as we sat opposite one another sipping our cups we exchanged curious glances. Ours had, indeed, been a strange meeting. She burst out laughing at last. "Well," she said, "I see you are surprised." "I am. I did not expect you had exchanged your life in London for this," I exclaimed. "Ah! I was horribly tired of inactivity there. I had spent all my money, and could do nothing in your country. It is a drawback to be too well-known," she laughed. "But surely this life is attended by very serious risks," I observed, noticing, as the sunlight fell across her hair, that she was still as handsome as ever, notwithstanding her ugly peasant costume and clumsy boots. "Yes," she answered reflectively. "Perhaps, in a little while, when I have made more money I shall leave here and return to London. One cannot live without money." "True," I answered. "Yet life here must be terribly dull and monotonous after Vienna and Paris." "Ah!" she cried, with the slightest suspicion of a sigh. "All that I have forgotten long, long ago." Her eyes were downcast, and I thought I detected tears in them. I gazed at her, this woman who was known in nearly every capital in Europe as one of the most daring and enterprising adventuresses of the century, half-fearing that she might still refuse to disclose her secret. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. OUTCAST. She moved slightly, raised her cup to her lips with a coquettish air, and on setting it down her dark bright eyes again met mine with inquiring glance. "Well," she exclaimed. "Is it not strange that you, of all men, should be in Skerstymone?" "I came to seek you," I said, looking earnestly into her pretty face. "For what reason?" "Because by your aid alone can I regain my lost happiness," I answered in deep earnestness. "Once, before you left London, you made certain allegations against Ella; but you failed to substantiate them, or to fulfil your promise in exchange for your passport." "Yes, I remember." "She is now my wife, and I have come to hear the truth from your own lips, Sonia." "Your wife!" she gasped, glaring at me. "Has--has she actually dared to marry you?" "Yes," I answered. "She has dared, because she loves me." She remained silent, with knit brows, for a long time engrossed in thought. Then briefly I told her how, after her departure, we had married, and related how suspicion had been aroused within me by her clandestine meetings with Cecil Bingham, her flight, and my subsequent discovery of her true position. "Then you are aware who she really is," she observed slowly at last. "That she has dared to enter into a matrimonial alliance with you is certainly astounding. Indeed, it is incredible." "Why?" I inquired in surprise. "There are the strongest reasons why she should never have become your wife," she replied ambiguously.