'Would they be likely to know,' she asked again in a timid tone, 'if any plot were being got up against you?'
'Any plot for my murder?'
'Yes!' Her voice sank to a whisper—she hardly dared to put the possibility into words. The fear which we allow to occupy our thoughts seems sometimes too fearful to be put into words. It appears as if by spoken utterance we conjure up the danger.
'Some hint of the kind might be got,' he said hesitatingly. 'Our enemies are very crafty, but these things often leak out. Someone loses courage and asks for advice—or confides to his wife, and she takes fright and goes for counsel to somebody else. Then two words of a telegram across the ocean would put me on my guard.'
'If you should get such a message, will you—tell me?'
'Oh, yes, certainly,' he said carelessly, 'I can promise you that.'
'And will you promise me one thing more—will you promise to be careful?'
'What is being careful? How can one take care, not knowing where or whence the danger threatens?'
'But you need not go out alone, at night.'
'You have no idea how great a delight it is for me to go about London at night. Then I am quite free—of politicians, interviewers, gossiping people, society ladies, and all the rest. I am master of myself, and I am myself again.'