It was on the tip of my tongue to remark upon his presence in the Monk’s Wood with her ladyship, but perhaps fortunately I held my peace. He seemed more in fear of detection than she did, for his face had gone ghastly pale and his bloodshot eyes were turned back upon the street-corner.
“Have you any message for her ladyship?” I inquired eagerly of the woman.
“Only my thanks to her.”
“But,” I said, bending to her and speaking in a low very earnest voice, “she is in grave peril. Only the truth, spoken by yourself, can save her. Recollect by giving you this warning she is saving you from the police.”
“I know. I know!” she replied. “I am fully aware of the disaster which threatens her. Tell her that I have not yet myself learned the whole truth. When I do, I will write to her.”
“But you will surely tell what you know?” I urged quickly.
“At risk of incriminating myself? Not likely,” was her reply.
“Then when the blow falls—as fall it must—it will kill her,” I said, disregarding the man’s presence, for I felt that he must certainly be aware of everything.
“Perhaps,” was her vague answer, in a hard strained voice. “If I could help her I would. At present, however, it is utterly impossible.”
“Not after this great service she has rendered to you? She has rescued you, remember.”