“Yes,” he said, and he met her gaze steadily, “I do say that; and you know that I would not speak untruthfully, even to persuade you to do what I want you to do.”
“What is it?” she said, with a little pant.
“I want you to forget that such a person as Harold Faradeane ever existed; to erase from your life all memory of him, and—his misfortunes. Don’t let me have to reproach myself with the thought that I have cast a shadow over the life of the only woman I ever——”
He stopped.
Her lips quivered, and her gaze fell for a moment, then she raised her eyes again.
“You ask me to do this?” she said.
“I do, with all my heart and soul,” he responded.
“Then I tell you that if I were capable of such baseness, I should be as vile—as vile as the man who committed the murder—the man you are screening! No! You ask too much. The rest of the world may take your silence for guilt, but I will not accept it! I will not rest until I have discovered the truth you are concealing.”
He uttered a cry of alarm, of dread.
“Olivia!”