As he spoke Lady Kathleen drew away from him with a slight shudder, as though some recollection had suddenly come back to her.
“The murder,” she asked, “what of that? I am told that it happened in your room?”
“I am innocent of it in every way,” said Westerham, earnestly. “Indeed, I have not yet discovered the motive of such a dastardly act. I can, however, make a guess, and the guess fills me with apprehension just as much for my safety as for yours.
“Why will you not relent,” he cried, “and make a confidant of me? Believe me that it is within my power to help you, and that I will gladly serve you in any way that you choose to dictate.”
Kathleen gave a little sob. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “don't distress me any further. It is not my secret but my father's—besides, I am not sure that you do not know.”
Westerham thrust up the trap and ordered the cabman to stop.
When he had stepped out he turned back and leant towards Kathleen. “You do me a great wrong,” he said. “But believe me, you cannot possibly fight for ever against my determination to serve you. I am told that the crisis is approaching.”
He had no notion what the words meant, but he desired to watch their effect, and again he saw Lady Kathleen's face blanch.
She stretched out both her hands as though to ward off a blow.
“How near is it?” she asked in a faint voice.