Her companion remained silent.
A few moments later they turned along a path which led to a stile, and thence through a thick wood of leafless oaks and beeches. Along the winding path carpeted with dead leaves they strolled hand-in-hand, until suddenly Otley halted, and in a thick hoarse voice quite unusual to him, said:
“Peggy. I—I have something to say to you. I—I have to go back to London.”
“To London—why?” gasped the girl in dismay.
“Because—well, because I can’t bear to be here with the glaring truth ever before me—that I——”
“What do you mean?” she asked, laying her hand upon his arm.
“I mean, dearest,” he said in a low, hard voice, “I mean that we can never marry. There is a barrier between us—a barrier of disgrace!”
“Of disgrace!” she gasped. “Oh! do explain, dear.”
“The explanation is quite simple,” he replied in a tone of despair. “You asked me in Paris what worried me. Well, Peggy, I’ll confess to you,” he went on, lowering his voice, his eyes downcast. “I am not worthy your love, and I here renounce it, for—for I am a thief!”
“A thief!” she echoed. “How?”