“You have the reason in my confession,” she replied; “in my confession which you regard with such abhorrence.Ah, do not deny it. You despise me; you would send me away if you could. But did you not know that the aid must have come from some one who loved you?”
The last two words she uttered in a tone of dogged determination.
“I thought it came from my cousin,” he replied.
“Your cousin!” she repeated, scornfully. “But you were ready to accept it. You took advantage of the means offered, and escaped. You were grateful then to one whom you would spurn now. Yes, say it—say you hate me; kill me.”
“My dear girl——”
“His dear girl!” she echoed, but whether in irony or pleasure he was unable to determine.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I recall the words. Miss Heath, for all that you have done for me you have my sincere gratitude. For your friendly acts I am thankful; but as for the motive that prompted them, I deeply regret its existence.”
“And yet I took pleasure in what I did: The risk I incurred was nothing. I only thought of you.”
Her tone was tender and pleading.
“It pains me to talk to you as I have to,” said Carlos. “Believe me, it pains me unspeakably. I admire your courage. I wonder at your ingenuity in disguising yourself as the New York detective. How could you carry the part so successfully?”