We were both more composed presently, and were seated side by side on the old bench inside the hut. We had no fear of being surprised by anyone; the side of the chalk-pit went up sheer behind the hut, and from the edge of it all was open country. Before us, as I have said, stretched the chalk-pit itself, and the wood, and beyond that the grounds of the house. So we sat contentedly, and looked into each other's eyes, and said what we wanted to say.
"It came upon me suddenly," began Debora, "this morning when I turned and saw Dr. Just on his knees, holding his wrist. I seemed to know instinctively that you had shot him. I knew, dear, that you would not run away, and I had time before they sent for me to make up my mind what to do. I had not quite realised what he had meant to do. I did not think he would be daring enough to shoot me in that fashion. But I am glad, for your sake, that you did not kill him."
"So am I—now," I replied. "And you do believe, my dearest girl, that he has really tried on these three occasions to take your life?"
"I know it," she answered, with a little shiver. "But it is for the last time. See"—she placed her hands in mine, and looked fearlessly into my eyes—"for the future you shall look after me—you shall take care of me. Is that too bold a thing to say?"
I drew her close to me. "No, Debora mine," I whispered, "because I love you. I am what you called me—a thing without a name, but in my heart I am honest; in my heart I love the name that has been given me, because by that you first knew me."
I told her of my plans: that we should go away then and there, and that for that night I would give her the room I had taken at the inn, and would find a lodging in another place. Then, quite early, before anyone we need fear was awake, we would start off into the world, on some impossible mission of making a fortune, and living happily for ever afterwards.
"But you forget, John dear—I have a fortune already," she reminded me. "That belongs to me—that we must get."
I was troubled at the thought of that, troubled lest she might believe, even for one fleeting moment, that I set that fortune as of greater value than herself. I was about to speak of it when she suddenly turned to me, and began to speak with the deepest earnestness of quite another matter.
"There is something I must say to you—now, before we leave this place," she said. "I want first of all to tell you that I never loved Gregory Pennington; he was only my dear friend—my brother."
"I am glad," I answered simply.