“Shall I help you?” suggested the Count. “Shall I give this private difficulty of yours a name? What if I call it—Anne Catherick?”
“Look here, Fosco, you and I have known each other for a long time, and if you have helped me out of one or two scrapes before this, I have done the best I could to help you in return, as far as money would go. We have made as many friendly sacrifices, on both sides, as men could, but we have had our secrets from each other, of course—haven’t we?”
“You have had a secret from me, Percival. There is a skeleton in your cupboard here at Blackwater Park that has peeped out in these last few days at other people besides yourself.”
“Well, suppose it has. If it doesn’t concern you, you needn’t be curious about it, need you?”
“Do I look curious about it?”
“Yes, you do.”
“So! so! my face speaks the truth, then? What an immense foundation of good there must be in the nature of a man who arrives at my age, and whose face has not yet lost the habit of speaking the truth!—Come, Glyde! let us be candid one with the other. This secret of yours has sought me: I have not sought it. Let us say I am curious—do you ask me, as your old friend, to respect your secret, and to leave it, once for all, in your own keeping?”
“Yes—that’s just what I do ask.”
“Then my curiosity is at an end. It dies in me from this moment.”
“Do you really mean that?”