"Did you guess last night that we were impostors?" she asked.
"Certainly not," he answered. "Andrew was tortured with doubts about you. He believed that you were Phyllis Poynton!"
"I am!" she whispered. "I was afraid of him all the evening. He must have known."
It seemed to Duncombe that the rocks and gorse bushes were spinning round and the ground was swaying under his feet. The wind, which had kept them both half breathless, seemed full of mocking voices. She was an impostor. These were her own words. She was in danger of detection, perhaps of other things. At that very moment Spencer might have gained an entrance into Runton Place. He felt uncertain of himself, and all the time her eyes watched him jealously.
"Why did you come here?" she cried. "Why do you look at me like that? It is no concern of yours who I am. Why do you interfere?"
"Everything that concerns you concerns me," he answered. "I don't care who you are, or who you say you are. I don't even ask you for any sort of explanation. I came to warn you about Spencer. For the rest, here am I your friend whatever happens. You are terrified! Don't go back to the house. Give me the right to take care of you. I'll do it!"
Then for the first time a really human expression lit up her face. The sick fear passed away. Her features were suddenly softer. The light in her eyes was a beautiful thing.
"You are kind," she murmured, "kinder than I ever dreamed any one could be who—knew. Will you be kinder still?"
"Try me!" he begged.
"Then go away. Forget who I am. Forget who I am not. Shut yourself up in your study for twenty-four hours, and come out without any memories at all. Oh, do this for me—do this!" she begged, with a sudden break in her voice.