“You knew—?” she said, and gazed at him with a silent appeal.

“Yes, I knew.  He deceived you and deluded you into running away with him.”

“I thought he loved me, and he did when he married me.  I am sure he did.  But when he met that lady—­”

“When he did what?” asked Keith, who could scarcely believe his own ears.  “Did he marry you?  Ferdy Wickersham?  Who married you?  When?  Where was it?  Who was present?”

“Yes; I would not come until he promised—­”

“Yes, I knew he would promise.  But did he marry you afterwards?  Who was present?  Have you any witnesses?”

“Yes.  Oh, yes.  I was married here in New York—­one night—­about ten o’clock—­the night we got here.  Mr. Plume was our only witness.  Mr. Plume had a paper the preacher gave him; but he lost it.”

“He did!  Who married you?  Where was it?”

“His name was Rimm—­Rimm-something—­I cannot remember much; my memory is all gone.  He was a young man.  He married us in his room.  Mr. Plume got him for me.  He offered to marry us himself—­said he was a preacher; but I wouldn’t have him, and said I would go home or kill myself if they didn’t have a preacher.  Then Mr. Plume went and came back, and we all got in a carriage and drove a little way, and got out and went into a house, and after some talk we were married.  I don’t know the street.  But I would know him if I saw him.  He was a young, fat man, that smiled and stood on his toes.”  The picture brought up to Keith the fat and unctuous Rimmon.

“Well, then you went abroad, and your husband left you over there?”

“Yes; I was in heaven for—­for a little while, and then he left me—­for another woman.  I am sure he cared for me, and he did not mean to treat me so; but she was rich and so beautiful, and—­what was I?” She gave an expressive gesture of self-abnegation.

“Poor fool!” said Keith to himself.  “Poor girl!” he said aloud.

“I have written; but, maybe, he never got my letter.  He would not have let me suffer so.”

Keith’s mouth shut closer.

She went on to tell of Wickersham’s leaving her; of her hopes that after her child was born he would come back to her.  But the child was born and died.  Then of her despair; of how she had spent everything, and sold everything she had to come home.

“I think if I could see him and tell him what I have been through, maybe he would—­be different.  I know he cared for me for a while.—­But I can’t find him,” she went on hopelessly.  “I don’t want to go to him where there are others to see me, for I’m not fit to see even if they’d let me in—­which they wouldn’t.” (She glanced down at her worn and shabby frock.) “I have watched for him ’most all day, but I haven’t seen him, and the police ordered me away.”

“I will find him for you,” said Keith, grimly.

“Oh, no!  You mustn’t—­you mustn’t say anything to him.  It would make him—­it wouldn’t do any good, and he’d never forgive me.”  She coughed deeply.