show it to you on the trip out. Please read it aloud, Miss Croydon.”
“‘The widow of Victor Charente’” she read in a low voice, “‘died here February 21, 1901. Had never married again.’” She looked up, her brows still knitted. “Well?” she asked.
“Well,” said Godfrey, “Victor Charente is the real name of Tremaine. He married that girl many years before he met your sister. She was his legal wife. Your sister never was. She was never the legal wife of anyone except Richard Delroy.”
She understood now, and the glad tears burst forth unrestrainable. Indeed, she made no effort to restrain them, but only rocked back and forth, pressing the message against her heart.
“Thank God!” she sobbed, “Thank God!” and then she started up from her chair. “I must tell her,” she said, “at once. If you knew how she has suffered! She must not be left in that cruel position an instant longer.”
“Very well,” agreed Godfrey. “We will wait for you here.”
She disappeared through a door at the farther end of the room, but in a moment came softly back again.
“She is asleep,” she said. “I will wait until she wakes. What a joyful awaking it will be!” and she sat down again. She wiped away the tears, but her eyes were still shining. Godfrey gazed at her with a face full of emotion.
“Now, Miss Croydon,” he began, “you’ve told me that my theory’s correct, but there are three or four
