“It isn’t true,” she cried. “You are not—that man?”
He raised his eyes and looked at her. It seemed to her that there was something almost satanic in the smile which alone disturbed the serenity of his face.
“Certainly I am,” he answered; “when I returned from America, it suited me to change my identity. You must not doubt anything that Mr. Aynesworth says. I can assure you that he is a most truthful and conscientious young man. I shall be able to give him a testimonial with a perfectly clear conscience.”
Juliet shuddered as she turned away. All the joy of life seemed to have gone from her face.
“You are Mr. Wingrave—the Mr. Wingrave. Oh! I can’t believe it,” she broke off suddenly. “No one could have been so kind, so generous, as you have been to me.”
She looked from one to the other of the two men. Both were silent, but whereas Aynesworth had turned his head away, Wingrave’s position and attitude were unchanged. She moved suddenly over towards him. One hand fell almost caressingly upon his shoulder. She looked eagerly into his face.
“Tell me—that it isn’t all true,” she begged. “Tell me that your kindness to me, at least, was real—that you did not mean it to be for my unhappiness afterwards. Please tell me that. I think if you asked me, if you cared to ask me, that I could forgive everything else.”
“Every vice, save one,” Wingrave murmured, “Nature has lavished upon me. I am a poor liar. It is perfectly true that my object in life has been exactly as Aynesworth has stated it. I may have been more or less successful—Aynesworth can tell you that, too. As regards yourself—”
“Yes?” she exclaimed.
“I congratulate you upon your escape,” Wingrave said. “Aynesworth is right. Association of any sort with me is for your evil!”