Still Mary did not speak. Mr. Morton went on, a note of urging, of reassurance, in his subdued voice:
“And, Mary,—whatever I may have said in the past,—you have nothing to fear from me. You are my daughter, and you have my respect. And you have nothing to fear from any one else, since I know everything.... There’s an afternoon train out of here; we’ll be taking that, Mary.”
And then Mary spoke. Her voice was low, but its tone was steady.
“I shall be willing—and glad—to do all I can to help. But I cannot go with you as your daughter.”
“What?” cried Mr. Morton. And then: “I don’t understand.”
The low voice went on:—
“I married Jack solely to make money and gain position. Even before last night I had decided never to take them. And now, after what has happened, even more can I never take them. Believe me, I mean no offense to you, but I cannot be your daughter-in-law.”
“What?” repeated Mr. Morton.
Clifford gazed at her, stupefied.
“While Jack lived my marriage to him was a secret,” the low voice went on. “Now that he is dead, I prefer to have it continue to remain unknown, if that can be managed. I think it can. If the few who know are made to believe that I am trying to force myself upon you, they will keep silent out of pure malice toward me. That is, I want it to remain unknown, unless Mr. Clifford needs my testimony to convict in his cases.”