“Yes—yes,” he observed, nervously: “but wherefore should we meet at all?”
“Not to exchange caresses and endearing words—not to unite our fortunes or our misfortunes, as husband and wife,” responded the old woman. “Of that you may be well assured!”
“Then, again I ask—wherefore should we meet?” demanded Torrens.
“Because this interview suits my purposes,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, with a malignant grin; “and I may as well commence by assuring you that you are completely in my power.”
“In your power!” repeated the old man, casting a ghastly look of mingled apprehension and appeal on her who thus proclaimed her authority, and who seemed resolved to exercise it.
“Yes—in my power,” she exclaimed, in an impressive manner. “Do you know that I was arrested on suspicion of being the murderess, or at all events concerned in the murder—”
“Murder! oh—my God!” moaned Torrens, clasping his hands together in convulsive anguish, as he glared wildly around.
“Do not affect ignorance of the fact,” said Mrs. Mortimer: “because you are doubtless well aware that I was arrested for your crime.”
“No—no: you cannot prove that I did it—you can prove nothing!” cried Torrens, with a species of hysterical violence.
“I can prove that you were the murderer of Percival,” responded the old woman, fixing her eyes sternly upon her husband.