"and I
know you better than you think. Once I had the honor of your
acquaintance. That doesn't matter. Neither does it matter just who
Arthur Dillon is. He's a fraud from cover to cover. His deserted wife is
living, poor as well as neglected. The wretched woman has sought him
long----"

"Why don't you put her on the track?" Honora asked, relieved that the
lunatic wished only to talk.

"He makes love to you now as he has done for years, and he hopes to
marry you soon. I can tell that by his behavior. I warn you that he is
not free to marry. His wife lives. If you marry him I shall put her on
his track, and give you a honeymoon of scandal. It was enough for him to
have wrecked my life and broken my heart. I shall not permit him to
repeat that work on any other unfortunate."

"Is that all?"

Edith, wholly astonished at the feeble impression made by her story, saw
that her usual form had been lacking. Her scorn for Honora suggested
that acting would be wasted on her; that the mere news of the living
wife would be sufficient to plunge her into anguish. But here was no
delight of pallid face and trembling limbs. Her tale would have gone
just as well with the trees.

"I have risked my life to tell you this," said she throwing in the note
of pathos. "If Arthur Dillon, or whoever he is, hears of it, he will
kill me."

"Don't worry then," and Honora turned about with benign face and manner,
quite suited to the need of a crazy patient escaped from her keepers, "I
shall never tell him. But please go, for some one is coming. It may be
he."

Edith turned about swiftly and saw a form approaching through the trees.
She had her choice of two paths a little beyond, and fled by the upper
one. Her fear of Arthur had become mortal. As it was she rushed into the
arms of Louis, who had seen the fleeing form, and thought to play a joke
upon Mona or Honora. He dropped the stranger and made apologies for his
rudeness. She curtsied mockingly, and murmured:

"Possibly we have met before."

The blood rose hot to his face as he recognized her, and her face paled
as he seized her by the wrist with scant courtesy.

"I scarcely hoped for the honor of meeting you again, Sister Claire. Of
course you are here only for mischief, and Arthur Dillon must see you
and settle with you. I'll trouble you to come with me."

"You have not improved," she snarled. "You would attack my honor again."

Then she screamed for help once, not the second time,