“Yes,” said Mark moodily; “my duty is to Rich here, my promised wife.”
“And yet for the sake of some unworthy wretch, you make her suffer—yes, sir, and me too. Why, Rich, dear Rich, what is the matter?”
She flew to her friend’s side, and caught her hands; for Rich had started from her chair, looking wildly from one to the other, as, struggling as it were from out of a confused mist, how revived she could not tell, there came back to her, memory by memory, the scenes of that terrible night. Yes: she remembered now, though it still seemed like a dream—a fragmentary, misty dream.
Yes, that was the clue! Janet had said it was upon that same night that Mark had returned—had been found senseless in the streets.
“Don’t, don’t speak to me for a minute!” she cried, as she fought hard to recall everything—the maddening pain that night, the visit to the surgery, the chloral she had obtained and taken, and then that strange wild sleep.
Yes; she recalled it now. She dreamed she had come down to fetch something else from the surgery to allay the agony she suffered, and that the door was locked, and that she had heard voices—her father’s voice, Mark’s voice—yes, it was Mark’s voice; and she had stood there trembling till it died away; and that formed part of her dream.
But now the voice was here in this room, and he caught her hand with a wildly suspicious look in his eye.
“What are you thinking?” he said.
She turned upon him sharply.
“The name of your friend with whom you took refuge that night?” she said; and her eyes flashed as she gazed searchingly in his.