March hesitated, and she turned upon him quickly. Her face was that of an old woman—gray, withered, and scored with lines, each one of which meant an agony.
His resolution dissolved like the frost before fire.
“You may depend upon my discretion and friendship,” he said impulsively.
She burst into tears, the low, convulsive sobbing he had heard above stairs on that other night.
Unable to bear more he ran down the staircase, and recognized before he reached the foot that he had committed himself to a lie.
“Mr. Gilchrist!”
His hand was upon the lock of the front door when he caught the low call.
Hetty stood upon the threshold of the library, a shadowy figure in white that seemed to waver in the uncertain light.
“I should like to speak to you, if you can spare a few minutes,” she pursued, leading the way into the room.
With a bow of acquiescence he sat down and waited for her to begin. His mind was in a tumult; dumb pain devoured him. He felt as any honorable man might feel who condones a felony.