Deeply in earnest, she was persuading me, with all the arts of which she, as a woman, was capable to give up the investigation—why?
My refusal evidently caused her the greatest anxiety—even deadly fear. She would, however, reveal nothing more to me. Therefore, I told her point-blank that I would make her no promise.
"But you will think over my words," she said earnestly. "You will be forewarned of the evil that is intended!"
"If there is evil, then I will combat it," I replied briefly. "My first concern is yourself, Lola. Do you remember our confidential talks when we strolled together in the Bois—when you told me all your troubles, and your fears?"
"Yes," she replied in a strange, dreary voice. "But—but, I did not tell you all. You do not know," she added in a whisper.
"Tell me all," I urged. "I know you are—well, let us say it quite plainly—a thief."
"Ah! If I were only that, I might dare to look you in the face—to crave your sympathy—your interest—your generosity once again. But I cannot. No! I cannot," and she burst into tears.
"Are we not friends?" I queried. "And between friends surely there may be confidences."
"To a certain degree, yes. But there is a limit even to confidences between friends," was her slow, thoughtful reply, as she dried her eyes with a little wisp of lace.