“Well, there has been no settlement in my case.  So whether Aaron Rockharrt should die intestate, or whether he should make a will, I am sure of my lawful third.  So I defy you, Mr. Fabian Rockharrt.  You may denounce me to your father He may turn me out of doors without a penny, and ‘without a character,’ as the servants say, but he cannot divorce me, because I have been faithful to him ever since our marriage.  I could compel him by law to support me, even though he might not let me share his home.  He would be obliged by law to give me alimony in proportion to his income, and, oh! what a magnificent revenue that would be for me—­with freedom from his tyranny into the bargain!  And at his death, which could not be long coming at his age, and after such a shock as his dutiful son proposes to give him, I should come in for my third.  And, oh, where so rich a widow as I should be!  With forty or fifty years of life before me in which to enjoy my fortune!  Ah, you see, my clever Mr. Fabian Rockharrt, though you frightened me out of self-possession at first, when I come to think over the situation, I find that you can do me no great harm.  If you should put your threats in execution and bring about a violent separation between myself and my husband, you would do me a signal favor, for I should gain my personal freedom, with a handsome alimony during his life, and at his death a third of his vast estate,” she concluded, snapping her fingers in his face.

“I think not.”

“Yes; I would.”

“No; you would not.”

“Indeed!  Why would I not, pray?” she inquired, with mocking incredulity.

“Oh, because of a mere trifle in your code of morals—­an insignificant impediment.”

“Tchut!” she exclaimed, contemptuously.  “Do you think me quite an idiot?”

“I think you would be much worse than an idiot if, in case of my father’s discarding you, you should move an inch toward obtaining alimony or in the case of the coveted ‘third.’”

“Pshaw!  Why, pray?”

“Because you have not, and never can have, the shadow of a right to either.”

“Bah! why not?”

“Because—­Alfred Whyte is living!”

She caught her breath and gazed at the speaker with great dilating blue eyes.

“What—­do—­you—­mean?” she faltered.

“Alfred Whyte, your husband of twenty years ago, is still living and likely to live—­a very handsome man of forty years old, residing at his magnificent country seat, Whyte Hall, Dulwich, near London.”

“Married again?” she whispered, hoarsely.

“Certainly not; an English gentleman does not commit bigamy.”

“How did you—­become acquainted—­with these facts?”

“I was sufficiently interested in you to seek him out, when I was in England.  I discovered where he lived; also that he was looking out for the best investment of his idle capital.  I called on him personally in the interests of our great enterprise.  He is now a member of the London syndicate.”