Helena read it, and looked up.  Buntingford anticipated the words that were on her lips.

“Wait a moment!—­let me go on.  I read that announcement in the Times, Helena, three years after my wife had deserted me.  I had spent those three years, first in recovering from a bad accident, and then in wandering about trying to trace her.  Naturally, I went off to Lyons at once, and could discover—­nothing!  The police there did all they could to help me—­our own Embassy in Paris got at the Ministry of the Interior—­useless!  I recovered the original notice and envelope from the Times.  Both were typewritten, and the Lyons postmark told us no more than the notice had already told.  I could only carry on my search, and for some years afterwards, even after I had returned to London, I spent the greater part of all I earned and possessed upon it.  About that time my friendship with your mother began.  She was already ill, and spent most of her life—­as you remember—­except for those two or three invalid winters in Italy—­in that little drawing-room, I knew so well.  I could always be sure of finding her at home; and gradually—­as you recollect—­she became my best friend.  She was the only person in England who knew the true story of my marriage.  She always suspected, from the time she first heard of it, that the notice in the Times—­”

Helena made a quick movement forward.  Her lips parted.

“—­was not true?”

Buntingford took her hand again, and they looked at each other, she trembling involuntarily.

“And the woman last night?” she said, breathlessly—­“was she someone who knew—­who could tell you the truth?”

“She was my wife—­herself!”

Helena withdrew her hand.

“How strange!—­how strange!” She covered her eyes.  There was a silence.  After it, Buntingford resumed: 

“Has Geoffrey told you the first warning of it—­you left this room?”

“No.”

He described the incident of the sketch.

“It was a drawing I had made of her only a few weeks before she left me.  I had no idea it was in that portfolio.  We had scarcely time to put it away before Mr. Alcott’s note arrived—­sending for me at once.”

Helena’s hands had dropped, while she hung upon his story.  And a wonderful unconscious sweetness had stolen into her expression.  Her young heart was in her eyes.

“Oh, I am so glad—­so glad—­you had that warning!”

Buntingford was deeply touched.

“You dear child!” he said in a rather choked voice, and, rising, he walked away from her to the further end of the room.  When he returned, he found a pale and thoughtful Helena.

“Of course, Cousin Philip, this will make a great change—­in your life—­and in mine.”

He stood silently before her—­preferring that she should make her own suggestions.

“I think—­I ought to go away at once.  Thanks to you—­I have Mrs. Friend—­who is such a dear.”