"Have no fear, Miss Wardour; have I not said I will keep my own counsel?"
"But, you! You! Oh, there is no reason why you should not speak; you are not bound! You are not—oh, what am I saying!" She sank back into her seat, panting and wild-eyed.
"Miss Wardour, calm yourself," he said, gently. "I am bound. It is my pleasure to keep this secret. Listen. A short time ago I received a visit from my lawyers. They told me—among other things, they thought it best that I should know—that you knew who did the deed, and that you would have us both saved, innocent and guilty alike. Before that, I had determined to keep silence; now I am doubly resolved. For your sake, I will not accuse Frank Lamotte."
"Frank—you will not accuse Frank Lamotte? And for my sake!" she almost shrieked. "For God's sake, explain. What is Frank Lamotte to me? Of what can you accuse him?"
It was Clifford Heath's turn to lose his composure. How could he interpret her words? Was she trying to deceive him?
"Miss Wardour," he said, almost sternly, "do you wish me to understand that Francis Lamotte is nothing to you?"
"Nothing to me! the vilest, the basest, the most treacherous, the most abject of all human creatures, that is what Frank Lamotte is to me!"
Uncontrollable scorn rang in her voice; rising anger, too. How dared he couple her name with that of Frank Lamotte?
From the chaos of meanings and mysteries revolving through his mind, Clifford Heath seized upon and clung to one idea, held it in silence for a moment, then let it burst forth in words.
"Then—then you are not Frank Lamotte's promised wife?"