Her lips were bloodless; her face of ashen pallor.
“You are not yourself to-day,” I said. “It is not usual for a woman who is loved to speak as you speak. The love of a man is usually flattering to a woman.”
“I have come to save you, and have spoken plainly.”
“What, then, have I done that I deserve punishment?” I inquired in breathless eagerness.
“You love me.”
“Surely the simple offence of being your lover is not punishable by death?”
“Alas! it is,” she answered hoarsely. “Compelled as I am to preserve my secret, I cannot explain to you. Yet, if I could, the facts would prove so astounding that you would refuse to believe them. Only the graves of those who have loved me—some of them nameless—are sufficient proof of the fatality I bring upon those whom my beauty entrances.”
She raised her head, and her eyes encountered a photograph standing on a table in the window. It was Roddy’s.
“See there!” she said, starting, raising her hand and pointing to it. “Like yourself, that man loved me, and has paid the penalty. He died abroad.”
“No,” I replied quickly. “You are mistaken. That picture is the portrait of a friend; and he’s certainly not dead, for he was here smoking with me last night.”