“But Freyberger—”
“Is not a woman. No, but are men never jealous? I watched him last night when you were speaking to him. I could read his mind. The information you gave made his eyes sparkle with pleasure and excitement. Yet he was displeased. He spoke to you almost as if you were an antagonist. He said to himself, ‘This is a professional rival, a clever man who will, perhaps, take from me some of the honour should I bring this case to a successful termination.’
“I believe in this Mr Freyberger. He has great qualities, he has perception and determination, but he is human. It is human to be jealous. You have committed no fault that I can see; but, then, I am not Freyberger. Had I met you in the passage of that house to-night, I would have said to you, ‘Your coming here makes no difference if the bird has flown; if the bird has not flown then remain with me, and help to capture him on his return.’ But then, you see, I am just a woman, not a jealous detective.
“Do not be depressed, and, above all, do not relax your vigilance, for something tells me that, clever though our friend the detective may be, you will materially help in the completion of this terrible case. The only thing I regret is—”
“Yes?”
She sighed. “I regret that I have been instrumental in casting the shadow of so much crime and wickedness upon so true a heart as my friend Hellier.”
He left her, carrying with him the perfume of her hair and the warmth of her lips.
She loved him entirely, and told him so without a word. He could have made her his mistress that night. He would as soon have spat upon the pyx.
The only love that is worth a name is the love that builds up barriers, the love that can take yet withholds its hand.
The fatal, fatal mistake of the woman who gives herself up to a man before marriage, the fatal mistake is not so much perhaps in yielding to nature as in entertaining the idea that she is loved.