with Tremaine? But then, she couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve years old in 1891.”
“Eleven,” corrected Godfrey, and I was struck by the radiant expression of his face as he took a yellow paper from his pocket. “Let me read you two sentences from this old report concerning the Croydon family—you ought to have recalled them, my dear Lester.”
“Go ahead,” I said helplessly.
“‘Eldest daughter, Edith, born in France, August 26, 1874. Educated at school there, but broke down from overstudy and returned to Beckenham. Religion, Catholic.’ Now,” he demanded, “do you understand who it was married Tremaine at Petits Colombes in 1891?”
At last I saw it, and I could only sit and stare at him, marvelling at my own stupidity. This was the key—the key to the whole enigma. Miss Croydon had taken her sister’s place, had tried to buy him off, to get him out of her sister’s way. It was Tremaine who had opened the door—it was Tremaine whom she had come to the Marathon to meet. But—and I started upright—since they were Catholics, only his death could release Mrs. Delroy! Perhaps it was Thompson, after all, and his death had released her! But no; and in an instant the whole terrible position of the elder woman burst upon me. She was not Delroy’s wife, she was…
“So,” I said hoarsely, “Tremaine is then the true husband of Mrs. Delroy!”
“Let us finish the story of the clippings before going into that,” suggested Godfrey. “I confess, I don’t
