accomplices in the righteous fraud.  I might, did I not fear being prolix, tell of sundry side-issues growing out of the main stalk of this plot, such as the ingenious manoeuvres by which the promising couple of conspirators averted, upon the eve of the sister’s bridal, the threatened expose of their machinations to entrap the wealthy lover.  Suffice it to say that the duped husband (by brevet) lived for a decade and a half in the placid enjoyment of the ignorance which my sagacious sister here is disposed to confound with rational bliss—­nor is he quite sure, to this day, whether spouse No. 1 of the partner of his bosom still lives, or by clearance in what court of infamy or justice she managed to shuffle off her real name, and win a right to resume the title of spinster.”

He lighted a fresh cigar, and for the space of perhaps a minute, a dead and ominous silence prevailed.  Mabel, pallid and faint at heart, could not take her eyes from his countenance, with its cruel smile, frozen, shallow eyes, and the deep white dints coming and going in his nostrils.

He had judged without partiality.  He would condemn without mercy.  He would punish without remorse.

Herbert still faced the back of the lounge, but he had slipped his hand from the relaxing hold of hers, and pressed it over his eyes.  She could not seek to possess herself of it again.  Winston was not the only dupe of the nefarious fraud, the betrayal of which had overtaken the guilty pair thus late in their career of duplicity.  Yet, however severely she had suffered in heart from their falsehood and her brother’s intolerance, no stain would rest upon her name, while, terminate as the affair might, the disgraceful revelation would shipwreck her brother’s happiness for life, if not bring upon the old homestead a storm of scandal that would leave no more trace of the honorable reputation heretofore borne by its owners than remained of the smiling plenty of the cities of the plain after the fiery wrath of the Lord had overthrown them.

Mrs. Aylett resumed the suspended operation of cutting the leaves of her new monthly; fluttered them to be certain that none were overlooked; laid down the periodical; brushed the scattered bits of paper from her silken skirt, and retaining the paper-knife—­a costly toy of mother-of-pearl and silver—­changed her position so as to look her husband directly in the eye.

“I believe I can give you the information you lack,” she said, in curiously constrained accents, the concentration of some feeling to which she could or would not grant other vent.  “Clara Louise Lennox obtained a divorce from her first husband on the grounds of drunkenness, failure to maintain her, infidelity, and personal ill-usage.  He came home from sea, as you have said, the battered ruin of a man, fallen beyond hope of redemption.  There was no law, written or moral, which obliged her, when once freed from it, to carry about with her and thrust