"Mine!" said Margaret, her eyes fixed on the flushed face and desperate black eyes.
"Yes; yours, yours, yours!" cried Lottie. "Oh, can't you understand? No! You are so good and true, that you cannot believe there are such fiends in the world as me and Austin Ambrose!"
"Austin Ambrose!" was all Margaret could falter.
"Austin Ambrose! The cruellest, cleverest scoundrel on earth!" cried Lottie, tearing at her clothes and flinging them on as she spoke. "It was he who tempted me to go down to that place in Devonshire, and pass myself off as Blair's wife——"
"Pass yourself off as——Then—then you are not his wife?"
"No, and never was!" cried Lottie.
"Then——Oh, stop!—give me a minute! No!—don't touch me! I'm not going to faint!" for Lottie had sprung forward to catch her. "I will not faint; only give me a minute. I am Blair's wife!—Blair's wife! Say it again!" and the poor soul, white and red by turns, held up her hands to the wickedly weak and erring Lottie.
"I'll say it a thousand times; I'll beg your forgiveness on my knees; I'll do anything to atone for what I've done—but not now!" she exclaimed fiercely. "For while we are talking here, murder's being done; for it is murder to pit a man against Prince Rivani, and that's what they have done with Blair—Lord Ferrers, I mean!"
"Ah!" Margaret caught her breath, and pressed her hand to her heart for a moment; then she snatched up her cloak and flung it round her, and sprung to the door.
Lottie had just succeeded in getting on her ragged clothing, and put out a hand, humbly and imploringly, to stop her.