"I will tell you everything. Three days ago she wrote me a letter——"
"Rosalind?"
"Are you astonished?"
"I understood—I thought—that your friendship with her had suffered some—check."
"That is so," said Osborne with a bent head. "You may remember the night of the dance at the Abbey down at Tormouth. That night, when I was full of hopes of her favor, she suddenly cast me off like a burr from her robe—I am not even now sure why—unless she had discovered that my name was not Glyn."
"If so, she no doubt considered that a sufficient reason, Mr. Osborne," said Mrs. Marsh, a chill in her tone. "One does not like the names of one's friends to be detachable labels."
"Don't think that I blame her one bit!" cried Osborne—"no more than I blame myself. I was ordered by—the police to take a name. There seemed to be good reason for it. I only blame my baleful fate. Anyway, so it was. She dropped me—into the Pit. But she was at the inquest——"
"Indeed? At the inquest. She was there. Singular."
"Deeply veiled. She didn't think, I suppose, that I should know. But I should feel her presence in the blackest——"
"Mr. Osborne—I must beg—do not make your declarations to me——"