I obeyed reluctantly; very reluctantly, my feet seeming like lead. For I knew who she was. Though I had only seen her eyes, I had recognized them, and guessed already what her business with me was. She led the way resolutely to a quiet corner. The church was empty and still, with only the scent of incense in the air to tell of a recent service. It was no surprise to me when she turned abruptly, and, removing her hood, looked me in the face.
"What have you done with him?" she panted, laying her hand on my arm. "Speak! Tell me what you have done with him?"
The question, the very question, I had foreseen! Yet I tried to fence with her. I said, "With whom?"
"With whom?" she repeated bitterly. "You know me! I am not so changed in three years that you do not recognize me?"
"No; I know you," I said.
There was a hectic flush on her cheeks, and it seemed to me that the dark hair was thinner on her thin temples than when I had seen her last. But the eyes were the same.
"Then why ask with whom?" she cried passionately. "What have you done with the man you called Clarence?"
"Done with him?" I said feebly.
"Ay, done with him? Come, speak and tell me!" she repeated in fierce accents, her hand clutching my wrist, her eyes probing my face with merciless glances. "Have you killed him? Tell me!"
"Killed him, Mistress Anne?" I said sullenly. "No, I have not killed him."