“Well, do you know, old chap,” continued Dacres, “I couldn’t stand it; so I offered to make it all up with her.”

“Oh, I see you’ve done that, old boy.  Congrat—­”

“Pooh! wait a minute,” said Dacres, interrupting him.  “Well, you know, she wasn’t my wife at all.”

At this Hawbury stood utterly aghast.

“What’s that?”

“She wasn’t my wife at all.  She looks confoundedly like what my wife was at her best, but she’s another person.  It’s a most extraordinary likeness; and yet she’s isn’t any relation, but a great deal prettier woman.  What made me so sure, you know, was the infernally odd coincidence of the name; and then I only saw her off and on, you know, and I never heard her voice.  Then, you know, I was mad with jealousy; and so I made myself worse and worse, till I was ripe for murder, arson, assasination, and all that sort of thing, you know.”

To all this Hawbury listened in amazement, and could not utter a word, until at last, as Dacres paused, he said,

“By Jove!”

“Well, old man, I was the most infernal ass that ever lived.  And how I must have bored you!”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Hawbury again.  “But drive on, old boy.”

“Well, you know, the row occurred just then, and away went the scoundrels to the fight, and in came that parson fellow, and away we went.  I took Mrs. Willoughby to a safe place, where I kept her till I heard the trumpet, you know.  And I’ve got another thing to tell you.  It’s deuced odd, but she knew all about me.”

“The deuce she did!”

“Yes, the whole story.  Lived somewhere in the county.  But I don’t remember the Fays.  At any rate, she lived there; and do you know, old fellow, the county people used to think I beat my wife!”

“By Jove!”

“Yes; and afterward they raised a report that my cruelty had driven her mad.  But I had a few friends that stood up for me; and among others these Fays, you know, had heard the truth of it, and, as it happened, Kitty—­”

“Kitty?”

“Well, Mrs. Willoughby, I mean—­her name’s Kitty—­has always known the truth about it; and when she saw me at Naples she felt interested in me.”

“Oho!” and Hawbury opened his eyes.

“Well, she knew all about it; and, among other things, she gave me one piece of intelligence that has eased my mind.”

“Ah! what’s that?”

“Why, my wife is dead.”

“Oh, then there’s no doubt about it?”

“Not a bit.  She died eight years ago, and in an insane asylum.”

“By Jove!  Then she was mad all the time.”

“Yes:  that accounts for it and turns all my curses into pity.”

Dacres was silent now for a few moments.  At length he looked at
Hawbury with a very singular expression.

“Hawbury, old boy.”

“Well, Sconey?”

“I think we’ll keep it up.”

“Who?”