“No,” he said, smiling sadly; “only that it is impossible.”
There was a faint quiver of the lips, but it passed off, and her beautiful eyes flashed, and the colour rose in her cheeks, as she made a strong effort to be firm. Then there was a touch of anger in her voice as she said coldly—
“Must I appeal to someone passing, sir, or to one of the police?”
Her words stung him to the quick, “No,” he whispered huskily; “there is no need. If you are made of steel and can act to me like this, I must suffer; but do not insult me by treating me as if I were insane. I could bear it from your brother; not from you, Miss Clareborough.”
She winced slightly at the utterance of her name, and he fancied that there was the light of compassion for one brief moment in her eyes.
His own face hardened now in the bitterness and despair of the moment as he took out his pocket-book, and in spite of her self-command she watched his action narrowly as he drew out the carefully-folded handkerchief stained with blood.
“I saved this inadvertently,” he continued. “Yours; marked with your initials.”
He looked her full in the eyes as he spoke, bitterly now.
“When I found it where I had hurriedly thrust it into my pocket that night, it seemed to offer itself as an excellent clue for the police to track out the mystery of the house to which I was taken.”
She leaned forward quickly and caught at the handkerchief to cover it with her hand, while he still retained his hold.