“There appears to be a misunderstanding between you. It is quite true that I am acquainted with Mr Yelverton, and there is absolutely no necessity to deny the fact. We have known each other for a long time—ever since I was at Madame Gabrielle’s. He was curate at St. Michael’s, Rathbone Place, where I attended, and we were very good friends until—until—” and she did not finish the sentence.
“Until what?”
“Well, until an event occurred which transformed our friendship.”
“What event?”
Again the pair exchanged glances. She was apparently trying to obtain permission from him to expose to me the whole truth. At that moment I felt assured that this woman I had so fondly loved was playing me false, and, after all, this popular preacher was her real lover. Certain circumstances appeared to point to it, for her confusion was apparent; she knew not what to admit, nor what to deny.
He shrugged his shoulders in dumb motion, as though he were careless, but this action apparently gave her confidence, and she turned to me again, saying—
“Any explanation you demand, Mr Yelverton will no doubt give to you.”
“No, no,” Jack cried, addressing her. “It’s quite impossible. You know full well that I’m utterly in ignorance of the truth, and that you alone can explain, if you will.”
She bit her lips, and endeavoured to recover her self-possession. Her illness had weakened her, and rendered her curiously nervous, so that the least emotion visibly affected her.
“Yes,” I added, “you are concealing a secret from me, Muriel, and I, who am to be your husband, demand to know what it is. Tell me!”