"If they are—why do you incur such a risk!"
"Mrs. Romaine," said Caspar, gently, but with a steady coldness of tone, of which she did not at first feel the import, "I think you hardly know the force of what you are saying. I do not incur any risk unnecessarily or wantonly: I only wish the truth to be made known. What can I do more—or less?"
"You could go away," she said, almost in a whisper.
If the room had been lighter, she might, perhaps, have seen the frown that was gathering on his brow, the wrath that darkened his eyes as he spoke: but his face was in shadow, and for a moment anger made him speechless. She went on eagerly, breathlessly, without waiting for a reply.
"You might get off quite easily to—to Spain, perhaps, or some place where there was no extradition treaty. You are out on bail, I know; but your friends could not complain. Surely it is a natural enough thing for a man, situated as you are, to wish to escape: nobody would blame you in the long run—they would only say that you were wise. And if you stay, everything is against you. You had so much better take your present chance!"
Caspar muttered something inarticulate, then seemed to choke back further utterance, and kept silence for a minute. When he spoke it was in a curiously tranquil tone.
"You do not seem to have heard of the quality that men call their honor?"
"Oh, honor! I have heard enough about honor," she answered with a nervous, rasping laugh. "And you—you to talk about honor—after—after what you have done!"
Caspar Brooke fell back a step or two and surveyed her curiously.
"Good God!" The exclamation broke from him, as if against his will. "You speak as though you thought I was guilty—as though I had—murdered Oliver!"