“I have told you why I am compelled to still remain friendly with this man Markwick, a person hated by both of us. He has threatened me; he has declared that he will disclose my secret if I cannot obtain your silence regarding that interview in the garden at Blatherwycke. To-day I come to you to beg, nay, to pray to you to reconsider your decision.” She spoke so earnestly that I confess myself surprised.
“Upon that interview there apparently rests some very important development,” I observed, thoughtfully, after a pause. “He must have some exceedingly strong motive if he attempts to secure secrecy by such means. What is it?”
“I have no idea,” replied the Countess, quickly. “He does not desire that his friendship should compromise me, I suppose.”
“But has it not already compromised you in the eyes of Fyneshade?” I suggested, in a tone of suspicion.
“True; but your testimony, the word of a man of honour, will go a long way toward dispelling whatever absurd notions my husband has got into his head,” she urged.
“His notions, viewed by the light of later events, are not altogether surprising. To say the least, the circumstances are suspicious.”
“Ah! I quite admit that. It is for that very reason I cast myself upon your generosity and beg of your assistance. If I do not secure your silence, he—the man who holds me in his power—will not hesitate to denounce and crush me. Your promise may save me.”
“Save you? I cannot see how,” I said, mechanically, for I was thinking of the probability that she was the actual culprit.
“Ah! you do not—you cannot, understand,” she cried, impatiently. “I would prefer death to exposure. If he betrays my secret, then I—I will kill myself.”
“Come, come,” I said, sympathetically. “This is wild talk. Suicide is mere cowardice.”