He took her hands, but without pressing them. His face, frowning and flushed, with a little quivering of the nostrils, began to terrify her—
"Oh, Mark,—dear Mr. Mark—I went to see Mr. Lathrop—because—because
I was in great trouble—and I thought he could help me."
He dropped the hands.
"You went to him—instead of to me? How long have you been with him?
Did you write to him to arrange it?"
"No, no—we met by accident. Mark, it's not myself—it's a fear I have—a dreadful, dreadful fear!"
She came close to him, piteously, just murmuring—
"It's Monk Lawrence!—and Gertrude!"
He started, and looked at her keenly—
"You know something I don't know?"
"Oh yes, I do, I do!" she said, wringing her hands. "I ought to have told you long ago. But I've been afraid of what you might do—I've been afraid for Gertrude. Can't you see, Mark? I've been trying to make Mr. Lathrop keep watch—enquire—so that they wouldn't dare. I've told Gertrude that I know—I've written to people—I've done all I could. And this afternoon I felt I must go there and see for myself, what precautions had been taken—and I met Mr. Lathrop—"