“You did love me, Kathleen!” he asserted. “You never said so in words, but I know it,” he added, fiercely.
“Yes, I did.”
“And—you mean that you don’t now?”
Her voice was very tired. “Yes; I can’t help it,” she answered; “it has gone—utterly.”
The gray sea slowly lapped the rocks. Overhead the sharp scream of a gull cut through the stillness. It was broken again, a moment afterward, by a short hard laugh from the man.
“Don’t!” she whispered, and laid a hand swiftly on his arm. “Do you think it isn’t worse for me? I wish to God I did love you!” she cried, passionately. “Perhaps it would make me forget that, to all intents and purposes, I am a murderess.”
Broomhurst met her wide, despairing eyes with an amazement which yielded to sudden pitying comprehension.
“So that is it, my darling? You are worrying about that? You who were as loyal as—”
She stopped him with a frantic gesture.
“Don’t! don’t!” she wailed. “If you only knew! Let me try to tell you—will you?” she urged, pitifully. “It may be better if I tell some one—if I don’t keep it all to myself, and think, and think.”