There was a change in his tone, as he put that question which warned Bennydeck to be on his guard.  “I have not yet consulted my friend’s opinion,” he answered, shortly.

Herbert threw off the mask.  “In the meantime, you shall have my opinion,” he said.  “Your marriage is a crime—­and I mean to prevent it.”

The Captain left his chair, and sternly faced the man who had spoken those insolent words.

“Are you mad?” he asked.

Herbert was on the point of declaring himself to have been Catherine’s husband, until the law dissolved their marriage—­when a waiter came in and approached him with a message.  “You are wanted immediately, sir.”

“Who wants me?”

“A person outside, sir.  It’s a serious matter—­there is not a moment to lose.”

Herbert turned to the Captain.  “I must have your promise to wait for me,” he said, “or I don’t leave the room.”

“Make your mind easy.  I shall not stir from this place till you have explained yourself,” was the firm reply.

The servant led the way out.  He crossed the passage, and opened the door of a waiting-room.  Herbert passed in—­and found himself face to face with his divorced wife.

Chapter L.

Forgiveness to the Injured Doth Belong.

Without one word of explanation, Catherine stepped up to him, and spoke first.

“Answer me this,” she said—­“have you told Captain Bennydeck who I am?”

“Not yet.”

The shortest possible reply was the only reply that he could make, in the moment when he first looked at her.

She was not the same woman whom he had last seen at Sandyseal, returning for her lost book.  The agitation produced by that unexpected meeting had turned her pale; the overpowering sense of injury had hardened and aged her face.  This time, she was prepared to see him; this time, she was conscious of a resolution that raised her in her own estimation.  Her clear blue eyes glittered as she looked at him, the bright color glowed in her cheeks; he was literally dazzled by her beauty.

“In the past time, which we both remember,” she resumed, “you once said that I was the most truthful woman you had ever known.  Have I done anything to disturb that part of your old faith in me?”

“Nothing.”

She went on:  “Before you entered this house, I had determined to tell Captain Bennydeck what you have not told him yet.  When I say that, do you believe me?”

If he had been able to look away from her, he might have foreseen what was coming; and he would have remembered that his triumph over the Captain was still incomplete.  But his eyes were riveted on her face; his tenderest memories of her were pleading with him.  He answered as a docile child might have answered.

“I do believe you.”

She took a letter from her bosom; and, showing it, begged him to remark that it was not closed.