"May God have pity on me!"
"Yes," I said very earnestly. "Trust in Him, dearest, and He will help you."
"Ah!" she cried. "You don't know how I suffer—of all the terror—all the dread that haunts me night and day. Each ring at the door I fear may be the police—every man who passes the house I fear may be a detective watching. This torture is too awful. I feel I shall go mad—mad!"
And she paced the room in her despair, while I stood watching her, unable to still the wild, frantic terror that had gripped her young heart.
What could I do? What could I think?
"This cannot go on, Phrida!" I cried at last in desperation. "I will search out this man. I'll grip him by the throat and force the truth from him," I declared, setting my teeth hard. "I love you, and I will not stand by and see you suffer like this!"
"Ah, no!" she implored, suddenly approaching me, flinging herself upon her knees and gripping my hands. "No, I beg of you not to do that!" she cried hoarsely.
"But why?" I demanded. "Surely you can tell me the reason of your fear!" I went on—"the man is a rank impostor. That has been proved already by the police."
"Do you know that?" she asked, in an instant grave. "Are you quite certain of that? Remember, you have all along believed him to be the real Sir Digby."
"What is your belief, Phrida?" I asked her very earnestly.