"And she loves you—she must love you. Do you think any woman could help loving a man who had done what you did for her?"
"Oh, I expect she has forgotten all about me long ago," I said with a sudden bitterness. "People who go to prison can't expect to be remembered—except by the police."
I had spoken recklessly, and even while the words were on my tongue a vision of Joyce's honest blue eyes rose reproachfully in my mind. I remembered the terrible heartbroken little note which she had sent me after the trial, and then her other letter which I had received in Dartmoor—almost more pitiful in its brave attempt to keep hope and interest alive in my heart.
Sonia leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap.
"I thought," she said slowly, "I thought that perhaps you wanted to go to London in order to meet her."
I shook my head. "I am not quite so selfish as that. I have brought her enough trouble and unhappiness already."
"Then it is your cousin that you mean to see," she said softly—"this man, Marwood, who sent you to the prison."
For a second I was silent. It had suddenly occurred to me that in asking these questions Sonia might be acting under the instructions of McMurtrie or her father.
She saw my hesitation and evidently guessed the cause.
"Oh, you needn't think I shall repeat what you tell me," she broke out almost scornfully. "The doctor and my father are quite capable of taking care of themselves. They don't want me to act as their spy."