"
"Where was your father at the time, then?" Francis asked.
"In South America. Oliver Hilditch was nothing more than a
discharged employ? of his, discharged for dishonesty. He had to
leave South America; within a week to escape prosecution, and on
the way to Europe he concocted the plot which very nearly ruined
my life. He forged a letter from my father, begging me, if I
found it in any way possible, to listen to Oliver Hilditch's
proposals, and hinting guardedly at a very serious financial
crisis which it was in his power to avert. It never occurred to
me or to my chaperon to question his bona fides. He had lived
under the same roof as my father, and knew all the intimate
details of his life. He was very clever and I suppose I was a
fool. I remember thinking I was doing quite a heroic action when
I went to the registrar with him. What it led to you know."
There was a moment's throbbing silence. Francis, notwithstanding
his deep pity, was conscious of an overwhelming sensation of
relief. She had never cared for Oliver Hilditch! She had never
pretended to! He put the thought into words.
"You never cared for him, then?"
"I tried to," she replied simply, "but I found it impossible.
Within a week of our marriage I hated him."
Francis leaned back, his eyes half closed.
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