“You see, Mr. Holmes,” said he, “my wife was twenty before

her father became a rich man. During that time she ran free in a mining camp

and wandered through woods or mountains, so that her education has come from

Nature rather than from the schoolmaster. She is what we call in England a

tomboy, with a strong nature, wild and free, unfettered by any sort of

traditions. She is impetuous—volcanic, I was about to say. She is swift

in making up her mind and fearless in carrying out her resolutions. On the

other hand, I would not have given her the name which I have the honour to

bear”—he gave a little stately cough—“had I not thought

her to be at bottom a noble woman. I believe that she is capable of heroic

self-sacrifice and that anything dishonourable would be repugnant to

her.”


“Have you her photograph?”


“I brought this with me.” He opened a locket and showed us the full

face of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph but an ivory miniature,

and the artist had brought out the full effect of the lustrous black hair, the

large dark eyes, and the exquisite mouth. Holmes gazed long and earnestly at

it. Then he closed the locket and handed it back to Lord St. Simon.


“The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed your

acquaintance?”


“Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season. I met her

several times, became engaged to her, and have now married her.”


“She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry?”


“A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family.”


“And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a fait

accompli?”


“I really have made no inquiries on the subject.”


“Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day before the

wedding?”


“Yes.”


“Was she in good spirits?”


“Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our future

lives.”


“Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning of the

wedding?”