"Mr. Medhurst—I cannot understand," answered Margaret.
"No, Miss Woodford—of course you cannot. I will explain: My wife has made a similar mistake before, and I have served some months in a world behind the scenes. You must understand," he continued, almost fiercely, "I am ready to serve again." Then, turning towards Mrs. Medhurst, he said, "Hush—hush, Lucille; you will be ill if you excite yourself so."
All his sternness had vanished, lost in an infinite pity as he bent over his wife's couch.
She clutched his hand hysterically.
"Gordon—you shan't suffer again. Tell her to go and give information—I will be here, and I will admit I took it. Tell her to go—go quickly——"
And again the woman's head sank into the downy hiding-place.
Slowly great tears welled up into Margaret Woodford's eyes, as she saw and heard the true nature of the secret of Oaklands, and understood.
The quiet man stood out in heroic light, and yet to him how small a matter the punishment inflicted by the law to the daily dread—the covering of the old fault—and the daily, hourly strain to prevent a further fall. Yet here it was in all its hideousness, displayed to Margaret Woodford—the one outside element who had been received into a stricken house.
For a moment emotion held her silent, and then, with quick steps, she moved across the room, and sank down by Mrs. Medhurst's couch.
"Don't—don't cry—you poor—poor woman! You have restored my property," she said gently—the tears rolling unbidden down her sweet face. "Dear Mrs. Medhurst, how you must have suffered—and to think you thought I would ever say anything. Oh, I can't bear to dwell upon it! You must let me help you in your trouble—and the necklace? Of course you liked to look at it—everyone does—and you may take it whenever you like, and keep it all your life, if you wish—I shall never ask for it——"