"I have heard a strange thing," she said. "I have heard it rumoured that you are going to cross the Atlantic—that you mean to visit the Rocas Reef. Tell me, please, if it is true or not."
Angela did not know what to say.
"We are going to South America," she murmured, with a somewhat embarrassed smile. "We may pass the Rocas Reef."
"Ah, speak to me frankly," said Elizabeth, putting down her muff and moving forward with a slight gesture of supplication. "Mr. Vivian was Percival's friend. Does he really mean to go and look for him? Do they think that some of the crew and passengers may be living upon the island still?"
"There is just a chance," said Angela, quoting her brother. "He means to go and see. We did not tell you: we were afraid you might be too—too—hopeful."
"I will not be too hopeful. I will be prudent and calm. But you must tell me all about it. Do you really think there is any chance? Oh, you are happy: you can go and see for yourself, and I can do nothing—nothing—nothing! And it was my doing that he went!"
Her voice sank into a low moan. She clasped her hands together and wrung them a little beneath her cloak. Angela, looking at her with wet, sympathetic eyes, had a sudden inspiration. She held out her hand.
"Come with us," she said, gently. "Why should you not? We will take care of you. What would I not have given to do something for the man I loved! If Mr. Heron is living, you shall help us to find him."
Elizabeth's face turned white. "I cannot go with you under false pretences," she said. "You will think me base—wicked; you cannot think too ill of me—but——It was not Percival Heron whom I loved. And he knew it—and loved me still. You—you—have been true in your heart to your promised husband; but I—in my heart—was false."
She covered her face and burst into passionate weeping as she spoke. But Angela did not hesitate.