“After what took place to-night I can’t say that,” Guest replied sadly; “but there are points I have not yet grasped. An accident—a fit of passion—a great deal more than I have yet learned.”
“Then go to him to-night,” said Myra eagerly. “I will go with you. He shall not think that all who love forsake him in the hour of his need.”
“Myra!”
“I cannot help it,” she cried, springing up. “Did I not go to him when that suspicion clung to him—that he was treacherous and base? Even then in my heart I felt it could not be true. Yes, I know what you say; he has tacitly confessed to this dreadful crime, but we do not know all. I saw that Malcolm Stratton could not be base. If he has taken another’s life, I know, I feel all the horror; but he has not been false or treacherous to the woman he loved, and it was on account of this horror that he shrank back that day. To insult—to treat me with contempt? No; to spare me, Edie; and my place is at his side.”
“No, not now,” said Guest firmly. “I will go back to-night. Trust me, please, and have faith in my trying to do what is for the best.”
There was a few moments’ silence, and then Myra spoke again faintly, but with more composure.
“Yes, we trust you, Mr Guest. Don’t think any more about what I said. Come to me again soon with news. I shall be dying for your tidings. Yes,” she said, with a weary sigh, as she clung to his hand, “dying for your news. Only promise me this; that you will not deceive me in any way. If it is good or bad, you will come.”
“You must know,” said Guest quietly, “sooner or later. I will come and tell you everything.”
“Then go now—go to him.”
“Your father? He will think it strange that I have been and gone without seeing him.”