“He lies—I—I—never was in Petersburg in my life! I never knew Ivan——”
The proud, handsome woman, now pale to the lips, stopped suddenly. Her tongue refused to articulate; she reeled, clutched at the table for support, but, tottering back, fell heavily to the floor. Ringing for the servants, I told them that their mistress had fainted. Then hurrying on my coat, I crammed my hat upon my head, and left the house.
Lazily smoking before the fire in my chambers a fortnight afterwards, with my feet upon the fender, I had given myself up to reflection. My reverie was somewhat puzzling, for, truth to tell, I was in love, and the object of my affection was none other than Wanda Elworthy. Her face smiled down upon me from a cabinet photograph that stood upon the mantel-shelf; yet, as the smoke curled before it, I could not help thinking how much it resembled that of her unhappy mother.
Suddenly my meditations were interrupted by a loud rat-tat at the door. Opening it, I was surprised to discover a lady, who passed me without a word, and entered my sitting-room.
Closing the door I followed her, and found it was Mrs. Elworthy.
“Good afternoon,” I said, halting before the fire, with my hands behind my back. “I confess I’m puzzled, madam, as to the object of this call.”
Frowning slightly, she tapped the floor impatiently with her shapely foot.
“My object is to come to terms with you.”
“Then you admit your guilt?” I remarked, amazed.
“It is useless, I suppose, to deny it. You have discovered my secret, and I am prepared to pay the price you name.”