“So I have,” she answered, looking up at him again. “I don’t know, Mr Rolfe, what opinion you must have of me, but I hope you will consider my self-introduction permissible under the circumstances.”
“Why, of course,” he declared, for truth to tell he was much interested in her. She seemed so charmingly unconventional, not much more than a schoolgirl, and yet with all the delightful sweetness of budding womanhood. “But you have mentioned the name of a woman—a woman who is lost to me.”
“Ah! Maud Petrovitch,” she sighed. “Yes. I know. I know all the tragic story.”
“The tragic story?” he echoed, staring at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the tragic story of your love,” was her slow, distinct reply. “Pray forgive me, Mr Rolfe, for mentioning a subject which must be most painful, but I have only done so to show you that I am aware of the secret of your affection.”
“Then you are a friend of Maud?”
She nodded, without uttering a word.
“Where is she? I must see her,” he said quickly, with a fierce, anxious look upon his countenance. “This suspense is killing me.”
She was silent. Slowly she turned her fine eyes upon his, looking straight into his face.
“You ought surely to know,” she said, unflinchingly.