"Let me tell you something," I cried. "My thoughts may be groundless, but it may be well for you to know them."
Then I related to her the conversation I had had with the Catholic priest at Padstow. At that time I had not regarded it of importance, as it simply referred to a complaint about the unfairness of the marriage laws, where Catholics were concerned. After this I told her of Otho Killigrew's visit, of what he had said, and of the bargain we had made.
"On consideration I thought it best to promise him this," I concluded. "He aroused certain suspicions in my mind, and I thought I could still serve you if I were free. It may be I acted wrongly, but I thought it was worth the risk."
During the recital she uttered no sound. She seemed to be much changed since that night when we had parted at Treviscoe.
"And I—I have relieved you of the necessity of telling him anything, I suppose?" she said icily.
"Yes," I replied, feeling that she mistrusted me again. I longed to ask her what had happened since the night I had left her with Peter Trevisa, but I dared not; her manner froze the words on my lips.
"You do not know why Trevisa asked you to take me to his house?" she said presently.
"I only know what he told me. I knew that was not all the truth. He thought he had some hold upon you."
"And you had no idea what it was?"