“I promise,” he said, perhaps foolishly. “Whatever happens you may rely upon my friendship.”
Then, next instant, his instructions from his Highness flashed across his mind. He was there for some secret reason to play a treacherous part—that of the faithless lover.
She stood immovable, dabbing her eyes with a little wisp of lace. He was waiting for her to reveal the reason of her unhappiness. But she suddenly walked on mechanically, in her eyes a strange look of terror, nay of despair.
He strode beside her, much puzzled at her demeanour. She wished to tell him something of which she was ashamed. Only the desperation of her position prompted her to make the admission, and seek his advice.
They had gone, perhaps, three hundred yards still in the wood. The crimson light had faded, and the December dusk was quickly darkening, as it does in Scotland, when again she halted and faced him, saying in a faltering tone:
“Mr Hebberdine, I—I do hope you will not think any the worse of me—I mean, I hope you won’t think me fast, when I tell you that I—well, somehow, I don’t know how it is—but I feel that Fate has brought you here purposely to be my friend—and to save me!”
“To save you!” he echoed. “What do you mean? Be more explicit.”
“I know my words must sound very strange to you. But it is the truth! Ah!” she cried, “you cannot know all that I am suffering—or of the deadly peril in which I find myself. It is because of that, I ask the assistance of you—an honest man.”
Honest! Save the mark! He foresaw himself falling into some horrible complication, but the romance of the situation, together with the extreme beauty of his newly found little friend held the young man fascinated.
“I cannot be of assistance, Miss Elfrida, until I know the truth.”