“I have asked you to assist me, Miss Rolfe,” the old man said, in a low, impressive voice, leaning his arm upon the edge of his writing-table and bending towards her. “Surely when you know all that it means to me, you will not refuse?”
“I refuse to betray my friend,” was her firm response, her face white to the lips. “You may act as you think proper, Mr Statham. You may allow my friends to think ill of me; you may stand aside and see me cast to-morrow at a moment’s notice out of Cunnington’s employ because of my absence to-night, but my lips are closed regarding the confession made to me in confidence. In anything else I am ready to serve you. You have asked me to go upon a journey in your interests—in a motor car that is awaiting me. This I am willing and anxious to do. You are my benefactor, and it is my duty to do what you wish.”
“It is your duty, Miss Rolfe, to tell me what I desire to know.”
“No!” she cried, facing him boldly, her bright eyes flashing defiantly upon him. “It is not my duty to betray my friend—even to you!”
“Very well,” he answered, with a smile upon his thin lips. “It is getting late. They may be wondering at Cunnington’s. I will see you to the door.”
And the expression upon his face showed her, alas! too plainly that for her there was no future.
The present was already dead, the future—?