"My lips have been sealed. I'm not sure that I have the right to open them now. But I will. I don't think I could pay you a higher compliment than by trusting Miss Challoner's fate entirely into your hands."
Mrs. Hammond, now keenly interested, smiled at him encouragingly.
"Thanks, Mr. Markham, I'm not so old that I have forgotten how to be human."
He glanced around the room and lowered his voice.
"You know—Hermia—Miss Challoner very well, Mrs. Hammond?"
"Since her infancy—a creature of moods—willful, wayward, if you like—but the soul of honor and virtue."
He bowed his head.
"Thanks. You make it easier for me," he said. "I want you to understand first, Mrs. Hammond, that I alone am responsible for this misfortune. Miss Challoner and I met upon the highroad in Normandy, entirely by chance. I was doing the country afoot, as is my custom in summer. He machine was destroyed in an accident. She was alone. I asked her to go with me. She accepted my invitation. It was mad of me to ask her, made of her to accept—but she did accept. We were together more than a week-traveling afoot by day—sleeping in the open when the weather was fine and indoors when I could find a room for her. I had moments of inquietude at my responsibility, for I had done wrong in letting her go with me. She was a child and trusted me. I began by being amused. I ended by— Good God! Mrs. Hammond, I loved—I worshiped her. I couldn't have harmed her. She was sacred to me—and is now. You must understand that."
His hostess's expression, which had grown grave during this recital, relaxed a little.
"I think I understand, Mr. Markham. I am keenly interested. Where does
Olga Tcherny come in?"