She laughed, a light, nervous laugh, her eyes still fixed upon the water.
“You love her!” she exclaimed. “It is useless for me to say anything.”
“No, no, Muriel,” I cried. “I do not love her. How could I love her when I know nothing whatsoever of her? Why, I only saw her twice.”
“But you were with her a sufficient length of time to declare your love.”
How could she know? I wondered. Aline herself must have told her. She uttered a falsehood when she declared that she did not know the mysterious fair-faced woman whose power was so mysterious and unnatural.
I was puzzled.
“Well,” I said at length, “I admit it. I admit that in a moment of mad ecstasy I made a foolish declaration of affection—an avowal which I have ever since regretted.”
She gave me a pitying, scornful look, a glance which proved to me how fierce was her hatred of Aline.
“If you had told me of your fascination I might have been able to have explained the truth concerning her. But as you have thought fit to preserve your secret, no end can now be gained by the exposure of anything I know,” she said, quite calmly.
“What do you know about her, Muriel?” I inquired, laying my hand upon her arm in all seriousness. “Tell me.”