“If I had ever cared for you,” he continued, “in your present predicament it would all be ended.”
She raised her brows contemptuously. “Of course.”
“You see, I've found out the sort of woman you are.”
“What sort?”
“Need I recall?”
He turned away, searching hollows and clumps of bushes for bobbing heads of watchers. Her captors might be closing in on her. Her indifference to her danger was disconcerting. With eyes still fixed on the distant landscape, he revealed his thoughts.
“Your talk of love is paltry. It's tragic farce. You have a husband. You're liable to be jailed at any moment.”
He expected she would retort. When she maintained silence, he glanced down at his feet, ashamed of what he felt himself compelled to tell her.
“Love! If it were true, and if your affection were desired, you have no love to offer. Nothing that is you is yours. Your hours are numbered. Your body and your life are forfeit. The man who is your husband is leading the hue-and-cry against you. If you think you can persuade me to go to the scaffold for you, rid yourself of the thought. There'll be no repetition of the woods of Vincennes. The victim in that case was your lover; I'm not.” He met her eyes. “You never deceived me for a second. From the moment we left the Ryndam, I knew who it was had pushed Prince Rogovich overboard.”
“If you knew,” she asked quietly, “why didn't you have me arrested?”