At the mention of this name Morris’s face contorted itself, as the face of a man might do who was seized with a sudden pang of sharp and unexpected agony.
“Mary,” he said, in a hoarse and broken voice, “I have a confession to make to you, and I must make it—about this dead woman, I mean. I will not sail under false colours; you must know all the truth, and then judge.”
“Dear me,” she answered; “this sounds dreadfully tragic. But I may as well tell you at once that I have already heard some gossip.”
“I daresay; but you cannot have heard all the truth, for it was known only to me and her.”
Now, do what she would to prevent it, her alarm showed itself in Mary’s eyes.
“What am I to understand?” she said in a low voice—and she looked a question.
“Oh, no!” he answered with a faint smile; “nothing at all——”
“Not that you have been embracing her, for instance? That, I understand, is Eliza Layard’s story.”
“No, no; I never did such a thing in my life.”
A little sigh of relief broke from Mary’s lips. At the worst this was but an affair of sentiment.