“I do not anticipate his arrest,” I observed. “For when he is brought to trial, the revelations of which you have spoken will implicate too many people.”
“How do you know? What has he told you?” she inquired quickly.
“Nothing. I have learnt much from my own observations.”
“Now, tell me,” she said, suddenly placing her hand softly upon my arm. “Will you not take upon yourself the identity of Markwick for that brief quarter-of-an-hour in the shrubbery—that is, of course, providing you are asked? I—I appeal to you,” she added in a low tone, panting with emotion. “I appeal to you, as a woman clinging to one last hope, to remove this unfounded suspicion attaching to me. Speak, Stuart. Tell me you will remain my friend!”
I was silent. The darting flames showed her hand some face upturned to mine, pale, haggard, anxious. Her breast rose and fell beneath its silk and chiffon, and her white hand grasped my arm convulsively.
“I—I have been reckless,” I admit, she went on, brokenly. “My recklessness has been caused by an absence of love for my home or my husband, but I swear that Fyneshade’s suspicions are utterly groundless. Ah!—if you knew the terrible secret in my heart you would pity me—you would shield me, I know you would,” and some other words that she uttered were lost in a sudden fit of hysterical sobbing.
“What is your secret?” I asked calmly, when struggling with her emotion, she again looked up to my face.
“You will remember when we were in the library at Blatherwycke, you asked me if I ever knew a woman named Sybil.”
“Yes,” I cried eagerly. “Yes. Did you know her?”
“I—I lied to you when I denied all knowledge of her,” she answered. “I am well aware of the strange manner in which you became acquainted with her and of your marriage, but even though these incidents are startling, the secret of her life and death is far more astounding.”