“I was mad, then,” he declared quickly. “Forgive me. I ask your forgiveness in order that one you know may be made happy.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Carmenilla. I’m going to marry her,” he explained briefly.
“To marry Carmenilla!” she exclaimed, surprised.
He nodded. “Tell me that you forgive my madness that night,” he urged. “Remember that both you and I are hemmed in by enemies on every side; that our interests are exactly identical. In return for your forgiveness, I am ready to assist you in any way possible.”
Her clear eyes rested upon him with unwavering gaze.
“And you ask my forgiveness,” she said in atone of contempt at length. “You—who murdered Vittorina—a helpless, friendless girl.”
“I—murdered her!” he cried uneasily, with a look of abject terror. This denunciation was utterly unexpected. “What made you suspect that?”
“To any one who had knowledge of the facts, it’s quite plain,” she answered boldly. “Ah! do not try to deceive me. The police were in ignorance, therefore they could have no clue, and could make no arrest. I, however, am aware of the reason poor Vittorina’s life was taken; I know that her presence was detrimental to all our plans, and that she was enticed here, to London, in order that she might die. It is useless for you to protest your innocence to me.” Her face was hard, her eyes fixed immovably upon his.
He shrank beneath her searching glance, and stood before her with bent head in silence.