“He is my friend, as Roddy Morgan was,” I answered. “The latter died mysteriously under circumstances which were undoubtedly known to you, and I have resolved that John Yelverton shall not suffer at your hands.”
“I do not intend that he should suffer!” she cried quickly. “I love him. I will be his helpmate, his adviser, his protector. I confess to you that I love him with as great an affection as I can love anything on earth.”
“Did you not tell me once that even though you might love, your influence must nevertheless necessarily be that of evil?”
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said. “The baneful power I possess is not of my own seeking. I suppress it so that it may not injure him.”
“This mysterious power of yours injured poor Roddy. You cannot deny that,” I cried.
She sighed, but made no answer. Her thin hands were clenched; she was desperate.
“Yelverton knows nothing of your inexplicable potency for the working of evil. But he must—he shall know.”
“He will not believe you!” she cried defiantly. “You may tell him what you choose, but it cannot alter the love between us.”
“Not if I prove that you were responsible for Roddy Morgan’s death—that it was you who visited him during his valet’s absence?”
In an instant she grew pale as death, and stood there quivering in fear. Her defiance had given place to abject terror, and she dared not utter a word lest she should betray herself. Holding her in suspicion, as I did, I was quick to note the slightest wavering, to detect the least fear as expressed in her flawlessly beautiful countenance.