She smiled a strange, tantalising smile, and leaning against the edge of the table assumed an easy attitude.
“Is it not the truth that you are a mystery to every one?” I went on heedlessly, at that instant recollecting the conversation between herself and the stranger in Hyde Park. “Is it not the truth that your character is such that, if the people of London knew its true estimate, you would be mobbed and torn limb from limb?”
She started, glaring at me quickly in fear.
“This denunciation is very amusing,” she said, with a forced laugh.
“Amusing!” I cried. “I have not forgotten how your presence here had the effect of reducing sacred objects to ashes; I have not forgotten your own confession to me that you were a worker of iniquity, a woman endowed with an irresistible devastating force—the force of hell itself!”
“And even though I confessed to you, you now charge me with deception,” she answered in a strained tone. “You offered me your love, but I was self-denying, and urged you to forget me and love Muriel Moore, who was as pure and upright as I am wanton and sinful. Did you take my advice?”
“Yes,” I answered, a trifle more calmly. “But she is now lost to me.”
“I am aware of that,” she responded. “You tarried too long ere you declared your affection.”
“Then you know her whereabouts?” I cried eagerly. “Tell me.”
But she shook her head, answering—