"You can, you will—you must!" he said resolutely. "I am not a child to be frightened of a bogy. What terrible secret is there hidden behind all this?"
"Terrible secret—yes, that is it. Terrible secret—you have said it!"
"Do you, by any chance, refer to my mother's death? Is it that you knew all these years her murderer and have kept it secret?"
There was no reply. She covered her face with her hands and turned away.
"Am I right?" he persisted.
She rose to her feet, goaded, it seemed, by his persistent questioning into a sort of frenzy.
"Let me alone, Victor Catheron," she cried. "I have kept my secret for twenty-three years—do you think you will wring it from me all in a moment now? What right have you to question me—to say I shall tell, or shall not? If you knew all you would know you have no rights whatever—none—no right to ask any woman to share, your life—no right, if it comes to that, even to the title you bear!"
He rose up too—white to the lips. Was Lady Helena going mad? Had the announcement of his marriage turned her brain? In that pause, before either could speak again, a knock that had been twice given unheard, was repeated a third time. It brought both back instantly from the tragic, to the decorum of every-day life. Lady Helena sat down; Sir Victor opened the door. It was a servant with a note on a salver.
"Well, sir," the baronet demanded abruptly. "What do you want?"
"It's her ladyship, Sir Victor. A lady to see your ladyship on very important business."