"It is too late, Iris! We are all vile thieves. It is too late to begin crying now."
"Harry"—she threw herself upon her knees—"spare me! Let some other woman go, and call herself your widow. Then I will go away and hide myself."
"Don't talk nonsense, Iris," he replied roughly. "I tell you it is far too late. You should have thought of this before. It is now all arranged."
"I cannot go," she said.
"You must go; otherwise, all our trouble may prove useless."
"Then I will not go!" she declared, springing to her feet. "I will not degrade myself any further. I will not go!"
Harry rose too. He faced her for a moment. His eyes dropped. Even he remembered, at that moment, how great must be the fall of a woman who would consent to play such a part.
"You shall not go," he said, "unless you like. You can leave me to the consequences of my own acts—to my own degradation. Go back to England. In one thing only spare me. Do not tell what you know. As for me, I will forge a letter from you—"
"Forge a letter!"
"It is the only way left open, giving the lawyers authority to act, and inclosing the will. What will happen next? By whose hands the money is to reach me I know not yet. But you can leave me, Iris. Better that you should leave me—I shall only drag you lower."