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 "No, sir. Her husband lives."

At these words Hepworth suddenly regained full consciousness of his own being. He felt a fierce throb of anguish that made him stagger and turn sick. He sat down in the nearest chair and looked earnestly at the stranger.

"Proof of it!" he said. "Proof, man—for God's sake!"

The stranger sank his voice to a whisper.

"I trust to you," he said. "You must be an honest man, or Elisabeth—well, then, I am her husband—I am Walter Verrell."

For some five minutes after that the two men sat facing each other, their eyes staring, their faces white and drawn. Hepworth felt that all was over. He knew it was true. Something told him that this was no ugly dream, but an uglier reality. It was all over—and his great love was doomed to come to naught. He tried to think, but thought would not come to him. All he was conscious of was that something had struck him to the heart and numbed his life.