She stared at me in bewilderment.
"You are Ignace Prado," she said slowly.
"Before God," I answered, "I am nothing of the kind."
There was a moment of strenuous silence. Then, with a wild, impulsive gesture, she laid her hand on my arm.
"Who are you?" she whispered fearfully. "Speak, tell me! I feel as if I was going mad."
I caught her hands and drew her towards me. "Mercia, my heart," I said, holding her tightly in my arms and looking down into her dear, startled eyes, "you must give me your trust, as I have given you my love. We have got caught up, you and I, into a tangle of the Devil's own spinning, and God knows how it's all going to end. Listen. I swear by my love for you that I am not Ignace Prado, and that I know nothing of your father's death. More than that I can't tell you for the present, but you must believe me, Mercia—you shall believe me," I added, almost savagely, as she freed herself from my embrace and leaned back panting and pale against the wall.
"I feel that you are speaking the truth," she gasped, "but oh! you are in terrible danger. Guarez and the others will kill you, as surely as the sun rises, unless you leave here at once—unless you disappear altogether. They at least are convinced that you are Ignace; and your cousin, Maurice Furnivall—he is the man that has betrayed you—it was he who first told the League that you were in London."
"Yes," I said grimly, "I fancied I was indebted to Master Maurice for that kindness."
"And you will go, you will go immediately?"
"I shall go, Mercia," I said, "at precisely the same time that you do. If you imagine I am going to clear out and leave you alone with that cheerful gang of cut-throats, you're making a mistake."