"Ah," she breathed, "I—I can guess. Oh, Yorke, this you have told me makes it all the harder for me. But I must tell you. It weighs on my heart like—like lead. Ever since I fell, all the while I've been lying here her face has haunted me. I see it waking and sleeping, all white and drawn, with the tears running down it as it was when I told her."
"Whose—whose face? Whose?" he said, a vague presentiment mingling with his amazement and confusion.
"The young lady's—Leslie Lisle's," she gasped.
He sprang to his feet, then sank into the chair again, and sat breathing hard for a moment.
She waited till she had regained strength, then hurried on.
"It was me who—who separated you. Yorke, wait, don't—don't speak. It—it was a chance that helped me. I'd followed you to that place, Portmaris, and I was caught by the tide, and she tried to save me, and we climbed the cliff, and when I fainted she found the locket with your portrait in my bosom. See," and she drew the locket out and held it to him.
He took it mechanically and uttered a cry—a terrible cry.
"I gave you this! It's false! You stole it! Oh, Fin, forgive me—forgive me, but I feel as if I were going mad!" and he covered his face with his hands.
She let her hand rest on his arm timidly.
"Hold on!" she panted. "Let me tell you all as it happened. The tangle's coming straight. There's—there's been some devil's work besides mine! She saw the portrait and—and recognized it. I told her that you'd given it to me—as you had——."