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 words. Barham had never expected to divulge his secret woes, but this girl’s attitude was so confidential, so receptive, he couldn’t help it.

“My wife was utterly uncongenial to me,” he said, “this is no disparagement to her—she was a fine woman—but her tastes were all for society, and especially, Bridge playing society. I hate card playing, and so we had nothing in common. She knew and admitted this, and we drifted farther and farther apart. Too, I wanted to paint—I know I’m not an artist, but I love it so. My wife objected to my painting at home, so I set up a studio down here. I had no intention, at first, of keeping it secret, but it seemed better to do so, if I would be let alone, so I carried out the plan.

“And, as is my habit with anything I undertake, I carried it out thoroughly. I used every precaution that no one should suspect that Thomas Locke was Andrew Barham. And it was not at all difficult. I soon had the whole matter so well adjusted and the double life so perfectly arranged, that no one ever suspected such a thing. Nor do I feel myself under any obligation to apologize for it, or even explain it to any one except you.”

“Why to me?” and Pearl Jane looked at him with a wistful little smile.

“Because, dear—because I love you. It sounds strange for a man to say that, so soon after his wife’s death. But I am truthful, Pearl, and I tell you honestly, I didn’t know that I loved you until after Madeleine was gone from me. I had never analyzed or realized my feelings toward you. I think, had my wife lived, I never should have done so. I felt friendly toward you, but I had never thought of loving you. But that night at the party you touched my hand—and a thrill went all through