"At my expense—eh?" she asked in bitter reproach.
"No, dearest. The result shall not fall upon you," I said. "I will see to that. A foul and dastardly crime has been committed, and the assassin shall be brought to punishment."
My well-beloved shuddered in my arms as she heard my words—as though the guilt were upon her.
I detected it, and became more than ever puzzled. Why did she seek to secure this man's freedom?
I asked her that question point-blank, whereupon in a hard, faltering voice, she replied:
"Because, dear, while he is still a fugitive from justice I feel myself safe. The hour he is arrested is the hour of my doom."
"Why speak so despondently?" I asked. "Have I not promised to protect you from those people?"
"How can you if they make allegations against me and bring up witnesses who will commit perjury—who will swear anything in order that the guilt shall be placed upon my head," she asked in despair.
"Though the justice often dispensed by country magistrates is a disgraceful travesty of right and wrong, yet we still have in England justice in the criminal courts," I said. "Rest assured that no jury will convict an innocent woman of the crime of murder."
She stood slightly away from me, staring blankly straight before her. Then suddenly she pressed both hands upon her brow and cried in a low, intense voice: