“Why not tell me? Then I might assist you.”
“No, alas! you cannot assist me,” she answered, in a forlorn, hopeless voice, with head bent and her gaze fixed blankly upon the ground. “If you wish to be merciful towards me, leave here. Return to London and forget everything. While you remain, my terrible secret oppresses me with greater weight, because I know that I have lost for ever all love and hope—that the judgment of Heaven has fallen upon me.”
“Why, dearest?” he cried. “How is it you speak so strangely?” Then in an instant remembering her curious words when they had met at Monte Carlo, he added, “Anyone would believe that you had committed some fearful crime.”
She started, staring at him with lips compressed, but uttering no response. Her face was that of one upon whose conscience was some guilty secret.
“Come,” he said presently, in a kind, persuasive tone. “Tell me why poor Nelly’s death is a barrier to our happiness.”
“No,” she answered, “I cannot. Have I not already told you that my secret is inviolable?”
“You refuse?”
She nodded, her breast heaving and falling.
“Every detail of that terrible affair is still as vivid in my recollection as if it occurred but yesterday,” he said. “Until quite recently I have always believed that the assassin stole the brooch she was wearing; but I am now confident that it was stolen between the time I discovered the body and returned with assistance from the village.”
She held her breath, but only for a single instant.