“My angel!” said Ilam, driven to poetry by the stress of his emotion, “you mustn’t inquire; there are some things I can’t tell you—at least, not yet. When we are married, when matters are settled a bit, I will tell you everything, but not now.”
“Why not now?” she persisted.
“Look here,” he said, “if you persist I shall simply go and kill myself.”
She paused.
“My friend,” she resumed, “you do not love me as much as I love you. The measure of love is trust, and you do not trust me completely.”
“I love you in my way,” said Ilam doggedly; “men are not like women.”
“That is true,” she admitted philosophically.
“I would tell you everything if I was free to do so,” he said.
“Dearest”—she addressed him in quite a new tone—“you know something about those attacks on Carlos’ life.”
She spoke with an air of absolute certainty.