His explanations she found
difficulty in believing, but the upshot of it all--the fact that her
husband lay at St. Bartholomew's Hospital--seemed beyond doubt, and
this it was that mainly concerned her.
"I shall go at once," she said in a hard tone, turning her face from
him.
"But there's something else I must tell you," pursued Gammon, with
much awkwardness. "You don't know--who to ask for."
The woman's eyes, even now not in their depths unkindly, searched
him with a startled expression.
"I suppose I shall ask for Mr. Clover?"
"They wouldn't know who you meant. That isn't his real name."
A cry escaped her; she turned pale.
"Not his real name? I thought it--I was afraid of that! Who am I,
then? What--what have I a right to call myself?"
With a glance at the door of the sitting-room, nervousness bringing
the sweat to his forehead, Gammon told what he knew, all except the
burning of the will, and the fact of Greenacre's mission to Ireland.
The listener was at first sight utterly bewildered, looked
incredulous, and only when certain details had been repeated and
emphasized began to grasp the reality of what she heard.
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