proudly—“my spirit he could not break. Lots and lots of money would be mine, and estates of my own; but one thing about him I must tell: he never showed me violence. For one, two, three weeks I stayed a prisoner in his house. All the servants were faithful to him and I could not find a friend among them. Although quite innocent, I was ruined. Do you know?”
She raised her eyes pathetically to Val Beverley.
“I thought my heart was broken, for something told me my father was dead. This was true.”
“What!” I exclaimed. “You don’t mean”
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” she answered, brokenly. “He died on his way to Havana. They said it was an accident. Well—at last, Señor Menendez offered me marriage. I thought if I agreed it would give me my freedom, and I could run away and find Ah Tsong.”
She paused, and a flush coloured her delicate face and faded again, leaving it very pale.
“We were married in the house, by a Spanish priest. Oh”—she raised her hands pathetically—“do you know what a woman is like? My spirit was not broken still, but crushed. I had now nothing but kindness and gifts. I might never have known, but Senor Menendez, who thought”—she smiled sadly—“I was beautiful, took me to Cuba, where he had a great house. Please remember, please,” she pleaded, “before you judge of me, that I was so young and had never known love, except the love of my father. I did not even dream, then, his death was not an accident.
“I was proud of my jewels and fine dresses. But I began to notice that Juan did not present any of his friends to me. We went about, but to strange places, never to visit people of his own kind, and none came to
