“And see you no more—eh?”
“If you will leave to-day, I—I will see you in England—perhaps.”
“Perhaps!” I cried. “That is not a firm promise.”
“Then, if you really wish,” she replied in earnestness, “I will promise. I’ll promise anything. I’ll promise to see you in England—when the danger has passed, if—if disaster has not already fallen upon me,” she added in a hoarse whisper.
“But my place is here—near you,” I declared. “To fly from danger would be cowardly. I cannot leave you.”
“No,” she urged, her pale face hard and anxious. “Go, Mr. Biddulph; go and save yourself. Then, if you so desire, we shall meet again in secret—in England.”
“And that is an actual promise?” I asked, holding forth my hand.
“Yes,” she answered, taking it eagerly. “It is a real promise. Give me your address, and very soon I shall be in London to resume our acquaintanceship—but, remember, not our friendship. That must never be—never!”