“But why in Heaven’s name have you betrayed your country—why have you placed yourself so utterly and entirely in the hands of your enemies?” he cried in blank dismay.
“Because—ah! because I have been compelled.”
“Compelled to hand Italy’s secrets over to the hands of her enemies?” he asked in bitter reproach.
“Yes. But, at the time, I was in ignorance of what I was doing—of the fateful consequences—until, alas! too late.”
“And then?”
“Then, when I realised what! Had done—when I knew that I had made such a terrible mistake, and, further, that you were in search of the thief, I became horrified. Ah! you do not know what I have suffered—how horrible, how awful it has all been; in what constant dread I have lived all these long months, forced as I was to betray my country which I love.”
“Forced—what do you mean?” he asked with a very grave look.
“I was forced, because I was utterly helpless,” she gasped, her gloved hand upon the back of a chair to steady herself. “Last night I failed, because—because of you, Mr Waldron, and that failure means to me but one thing—death—death by my own hand!”
He stared at her, starting at her strange words. “Why, what do you mean, Lola?” he asked quickly. “Are you really in your right senses that you should say this?”
“I tell you quite openly and frankly, that I have come this morning to see you, because of my promise of last night—but it is to see you for the last time. Now, when I leave you I shall go back, and before to-day is out, I shall have bidden farewell to you—and to all!”