“But why did you stay? Why did you say nothing about it? And why were you not glad to go upstairs, instead of begging as you did to remain here?”
“Because,” she whispered, her nervous agitation coming back again, “I knew that while I remained down here they would not kill me outright; they could not let me die down here and introduce doctors and strangers to examine into the cause of my death into this room. I knew that a change of room was my death-warrant; and so it would have been, but for the accident which happened to Sarah on the very night when, but for you, I should have been sleeping upstairs ready to her hand.”
I staggered back, suddenly remembering the message Mr. Rayner had in his letter told me to give to Sarah. It was this—“Tell Sarah not to forget the work she has to do in my absence.” And I remembered also the grim way in which she had received it. Could he have meant that?
Mrs. Rayner continued—
“He hates violence; all was to have been over by his return, and he free to marry you.”
“But he couldn’t. I was engaged to Laurence, Mrs. Rayner.”
She gave a little bitter smile.
“And do you think that, with Laurence away and Mr. Rayner here, you could have withstood him? In spite of his soft manners, he has a will that acts like a spell. I tell you,” said she, twisting my fingers nervously, “though you say he is in America, and Laurence Reade says I shall never be in his power again, his influence is strong upon me even now. There is no peace, no freedom for me as long as he lives.”
“Mrs. Rayner,” said I suddenly, “may I ask you if what Mr. Rayner told me when I first came is true—that you were rich and he poor, and that he lived on your money?”
“No, it is not true. I had a little money when he first married me, which he ran through at once.”