“Then why have married her?” she exclaimed:  some womanly instinct within her crying out against this outrage. “’Twas cruel and unnecessary.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Cruel perhaps! ...  But surely no more than necessary.  I doubt if she would have entrusted her fortune to anyone but her husband.”

“Had she ceased to trust her romantic prince then?”

“Perhaps.  At any rate, I chose to make sure of the prize....  I have worked hard to get it and would not fail for lack of a simple ceremony ... moreover ...”

“Moreover?”

“Moreover, my dear Editha, there is always the possibility ... remote, no doubt ... but nevertheless tangible ... that at some time or other ... soon or late—­who knows?—­the little deception practiced on Lady Sue may come to the light of day....  In that case, even if the marriage be annulled on the ground of fraud ... which methinks is more than doubtful ... no one could deny my right as the heiress’s ... hem ... shall we say?—­temporary husband—­to dispose of her wealth as I thought fit.  If I am to become a pariah and an outcast, as you so eloquently suggested just now ...  I much prefer being a rich one....  With half a million in the pocket of my doublet the whole world is open to me.”

There was so much cool calculation, such callous contempt for the feelings and thoughts of the unfortunate girl whom he had so terribly wronged, in this expose of the situation, that Mistress de Chavasse herself was conscious of a sense of repulsion from the man whom she had aided hitherto.

She believed that she held him sufficiently in her power, through her knowledge of his schemes and through the help which she was rendering him, to extract a promise from him that he would share his ill-gotten spoils in equal portions with her.  At one time after the fracas in Bath Street, he had even given her a vague promise of marriage; therefore, he had kept secret from her the relation of that day spent at Dover.  Now she felt that even if he were free, she would never consent to link her future irretrievably with his.

But her share of the money she meant to have.  She was tired of poverty, tired of planning and scheming, of debt and humiliation.  She was tired of her life of dependence at Acol Court, and felt a sufficiency of youth and buoyancy in herself yet, to enjoy a final decade of luxury and amusement in London.

Therefore, she closed her ears to every call of conscience, she shut her heart against the lonely young girl who so sadly needed the counsels and protection of a good woman, and she was quite ready to lend a helping hand to Sir Marmaduke, at least until a goodly share of Lady Sue’s fortune was safely within her grasp.

One point occurred to her now, which caused her to ask anxiously: 

“Have you not made your reckonings without Richard Lambert, Marmaduke?  He is back in these parts, you know?”