"There's no mistake," he said. There was authority in his statement.

"There is, I tell you!" d.i.c.k cried, horrified by this conspiracy of defamation. He turned his tortured face to his bride of a day.

"Mary," he said huskily, "there is a mistake."

Something in her face appalled him. He was voiceless for a few terrible instants. Then he spoke again, more beseechingly.

"Say there's a mistake."

Mary preserved her poise. Yes--she must not forget! This was the hour of her triumph. What mattered it that the honey of it was as ashes in her mouth? She spoke with a simplicity that admitted no denial.

"It's all quite true."

The man who had so loved her, so trusted her, was overwhelmed by the revelation. He stood trembling for a moment, tottered, almost it seemed would have fallen, but presently steadied himself and sank supinely into a chair, where he sat in impotent suffering.

The father looked at Mary with a reproach that was pathetic.

"See," he said, and his heavy voice was for once thin with pa.s.sion, "see what you've done to my boy!"

Mary had held her eyes on d.i.c.k. There had been in her gaze a conflict of emotions, strong and baffling. Now, however, when the father spoke, her face grew more composed, and her eyes met his coldly. Her voice was level and vaguely dangerous as she answered his accusation.

"What is that compared to what you have done to me?"

Gilder stared at her in honest amazement. He had no suspicion as to the tragedy that lay between him and her.

"What have I done to you?" he questioned, uncomprehending.

Mary moved forward, pa.s.sing beyond the desk, and continued her advance toward him until the two stood close together, face to face. She spoke softly, but with an intensity of supreme feeling in her voice.

"Do you remember what I said to you the day you had me sent away?"

The merchant regarded her with stark lack of understanding.

"I don't remember you at all," he said.

The woman looked at him intently for a moment, then spoke in a colorless voice.

"Perhaps you remember Mary Turner, who was arrested four years ago for robbing your store. And perhaps you remember that she asked to speak to you before they took her to prison."

The heavy-jowled man gave a start.

"Oh, you begin to remember. Yes! There was a girl who swore she was innocent--yes, she swore that she was innocent. And she would have got off--only, you asked the judge to make an example of her."

The man to whom she spoke had gone gray a little. He began to understand, for he was not lacking in intelligence. Somehow, it was borne in on him that this woman had a grievance beyond the usual run of injuries.

"You are that girl?" he said. It was not a question, rather an affirmation.

Mary spoke with the dignity of long suffering--more than that, with the confident dignity of a vengeance long delayed, now at last achieved.

Her words were simple enough, but they touched to the heart of the man accused by them.

"I am that girl."

There was a little interval of silence. Then, Mary spoke again, remorselessly.

"You took away my good name. You smashed my life. You put me behind the bars. You owe for all that.... Well' I've begun to collect."

The man opposite her, the man of vigorous form, of strong face and keen eyes, stood gazing intently for long moments. In that time, he was learning many things. Finally, he spoke.

"And that is why you married my boy."

"It is." Mary gave the answer coldly, convincingly.

Convincingly, save to one--her husband. d.i.c.k suddenly aroused, and spoke with the violence of one sure.

"It is not!"

Burke shouted a warning. Demarest, more diplomatic, made a restraining gesture toward the police official, then started to address the young man soothingly.

But d.i.c.k would have none of their interference.

"This is my affair," he said, and the others fell silent. He stood up and went to Mary, and took her two hands in his, very gently, yet very firmly.

"Mary," he said softly, yet with a strength of conviction, "you married me because you love me."

The wife shuddered, but she strove to deny.

"No," she said gravely, "no, I did not!"

"And you love me now!" he went on insistingly.

"No, no!" Mary's denial came like a cry for escape.

"You love me now!" There was a masterful quality in his declaration, which seemed to ignore her negation.

"I don't," she repeated bitterly.

But he was inexorable.

"Look me in the face, and say that."

He took her face in his hands, lifted it, and his eyes met hers searchingly.

"Look me in the face, and say that," he repeated.

There was a silence that seemed long, though it was measured in the pa.s.sing of seconds. The three watchers dared not interrupt this drama of emotions, but, at last, Mary, who had planned so long for this hour, gathered her forces and spoke valiantly. Her voice was low, but without any weakness of doubt.

"I do not love you."