"No," said he. "I've got you and I mean to keep you. Your brother—"
"He's not my brother," she said, on a sudden resolution. "We told you that because, because—"
"Don't bother to explain," he said, smiling. That smile, in the days when that dungeon was a dungeon, might have cost him his life if the lady before him had had a knife and the skill to use it. Even now it was to cost him something.
"He's not my brother—we're married," she said. And at that he laughed.
"I know, my dear girl," he said. "I know all about it. But marriages like that don't last forever, and they don't prevent another gentleman playing for his own hand. I was there when he wasn't, and you let me help you."
"I wish I hadn't," said she. "I wish I'd walked all the way to London first. I didn't think—"
"You didn't think I'd got the sense to put two and two together," said he; "but I have. Come, look here. I liked your looks from the first. I thought— Never mind about that, though. I was wrong. But even now I like you better than any girl I've ever come across. Now, look here—"
"Don't say any more," she urged, almost wildly. "Don't! I am married. You don't believe me, but I am. You were kind once; be kind now and let me go—"
It was like a prisoner imploring a jailer.
"Let you go?" he echoed. "I know better. Not till you say, 'Send for the motor,' and that you'll go out in it with me. Say that and you're free as air."