Madeline gazed at her absently for a moment. "I suppose I had ought to hate you," she said, wearily; "you have made my life very black. Lucian Davlin will soon be here,—will you please go?"
"Surely you are going with me?" said Olive, in amaze.
"No."
"You doubt me? Oh, I have not made you feel your danger! You think I am an impostor!"
"No," said the girl, in the same quiet tone; "something here," putting her hand upon her bosom, "tells me that you are sincere. My own heart has abandoned me; it will not let me doubt you, much as I wish to. I cannot thank you for making my heart ache,—please go."
Still with that air of unnatural calm, she arose and walked to the window.
Of the two, Olive Girard was by far the more agitated. "Tell me," she said, in eager entreaty; "oh, tell me, you are not going with him?"
Madeline turned sharply around. "I shall not add myself to the list of his victims," she said, briefly.
And then the two gazed at each other in silence for a moment.
"This is madness," said Olive, at length. "What rash thing do you meditate? I will not leave you to face this man alone; I dare not do it."