"Yes,—much nearer to you than you imagined." Almost curtly he answered. "Did you think I would leave you at the mercy of those devils? You!" He stopped himself sharply. "No I was here to protect you—and I would have done it—though I should have shot myself afterwards. Even Bernard would have seen the force of that. But it didn't come to pass that way. It wasn't intended that it should. Well, it is over. There are not many who know—only Bernard, Tommy, and Ralston. They are going—if possible—to keep it dark, to suppress his name. I told them they must." His voice rang suddenly harsh, but softened again immediately. "That's all, dear—or nearly all. I hope it hasn't shocked you unutterably. I think the secret is safe anyhow, so you won't have—that—to face. I'm going now. I'll send—Peter—to light the lamp and bring you something to eat. And you'll undress, won't you, and go to bed? It's late."
He made as if he would rise, but her hands turned swiftly in his, turned and held him fast.
"Everard—Everard, why should you go?" she whispered tensely into the darkness that hid his face.
He yielded in a measure to her hold, but he would not suffer himself to be drawn nearer.
"Why?" she said again insistently.
He hesitated. "I think," he said slowly "that you will find an answer to that question—possibly more than one—when you have had time to think it over."
"What do you mean?" she breathed.
"Must I put it into words?" he said.
She heard the pain in his voice, but for the first time she passed it by unheeded. "Yes, tell me!" she said. "I must know."
He was silent for a little, as if mustering his forces. Then, his hands tight upon hers, he spoke. "In the first place, you are Dacre's widow, and not—my wife."