"You bore me from the room of death," she proceeded in a tense passionate whisper, "and you laid me down upon my bed, and then you kissed my brow. I did not know you at the time, for you were very cunningly disguised—but now I know."
It never occurred to me to deny, or even to demand the origin of her discovery. Indeed, incredible as it may appear, I experienced some sort of delight to learn that she was thoroughly acquainted with my villainy. Quick as a flash I said to myself: "She knows, and yet she has not turned from me. It must be that she loves!"
"I believed that you were utterly insensible," I gasped.
She sighed and leaned back in her seat. A long silence fell between us. My thoughts were in a tangled whirl. I could not grasp the skein of them, and I seemed to be plucking helplessly after a dozen elusive phantom-like ideas.
At last I heard her say: "It was for me he died, Agar!" She was alluding to the dead man, George Cavanagh, and her tones were full of bitterness.
I waited with my eyes upon her averted face. "He died in vain," she went on presently. "Ah, but doubtless you already know."
"Nothing!" I muttered. "Nothing."
"He was ruined," she said sadly, "and he wished his death to profit me—with money. Money! As if money could atone!"
"Then he was dishonest too, as well as I," I muttered, trying hard to smoothe all triumph from my tones.
She uttered a low moan of pain, and wrung her hands together. "No, no," she wailed. "He wished to be perhaps, but I gave the money back to them."