"The truth which you must know ere long," she answered hoarsely as we halted again beneath the leafless trees. "And when you learn it you will most certainly condemn me. But believe me, Mr. Royle, I am like your friend, Sir Digby, more sinned against than sinning."
"You speak in enigmas," I said.
"Because I cannot—I dare not tell you what I know. I dare not reveal the terrible and astounding secret entrusted to me. You will know it all soon enough. But—there," she added in a voice broken in despair, "what can matter now that Digby has shown the white feather—and fled."
"He was not a coward, Mrs. Petre," I remarked very calmly.
"No. He was a brave and honest man until——" and she paused, her low voice fading to a whisper that I did not catch.
"Until what?" I asked. "Did something happen?"
"Yes, it did," she replied in a hard, dry tone. "Something happened which changed his life."
"Then he is not the impostor the police believe?" I demanded.
"Certainly not," was her prompt reply. "Why he has thought fit to disappear fills me with anger. And yet—yet from this letter he has sent to me I can now see the reason. He was, no doubt, compelled to fly, poor fellow. His enemy forced him to do so."
"The woman—eh?"