"I tell you, sir," came urgently from Ryder, "that the girl is innocent of all—"
"Keep your tongue from her name—and your eyes from her face!... Come, madame."
With his iron grasp on her elbow he thrust her towards the boudoir at the end of the drawing-room, behind whose curtains Ryder had so long been hiding.
The chamber was in darkness, lighted only by a pale gleam from the other room. Aimée stumbled across the rug and found herself upon a huge divan against a window screen.
"Fatima is in the next room to come at a call. But perhaps you would prefer to wait for me alone? I shall not be long."
Desperately she caught at his arm, imploring, "I beg you, monsieur. He has done no real harm. Let him go. He is a stranger—he did not know. And he will never trouble you again. I will do anything—everything you desire—if only you will not injure him—"
"You trouble yourself strangely for a stranger."
"He is a stranger in danger for my sake. For it was in his duty to my—my family—" her trembling lips stumbled over the ridiculous lies, "that he has blundered into this. He has no idea how shocking a thing he has—"
"And you had no idea, either, I suppose. You had never heard of honor or treachery or—"
"I was wrong, oh, I was wrong! I did want to go to France—I own it. And I was not ready for marriage. And I had heard that you—I was afraid. But now—if you will let him go for my sake, if you will not visit my sins upon him, oh, I should be so grateful—so grateful that anything I can ever do—"