“His name!” she exclaimed, looking straight at me. “His name—why do you wish to ascertain that?”
“First, because of curiosity, and, secondly, because in dealing with your enemies it will give me advantage if I am aware of facts of which they are in ignorance.”
But she shook her head, while her brows knit slightly, by which I knew that she was firm.
“Your knowledge of the affair is surely sufficient, Willoughby,” was her answer. “You see in me a miserable woman, haunted by the shadow of a crime, a woman whom the world holds in high esteem but who merits only disgrace and death. You pity me—you say that you love me! Well, if that is so—if you pity me, and your love is really sincere, you will at least have compassion upon me and allow me to retain one secret, even from you—the secret of that man’s name!”
“Then you refuse to satisfy me,” I exclaimed in bitter disappointment.
“Is it a proof of love and confidence to wring from a woman a name which is her secret alone?” she asked reprovingly.
“But I am trying to act as your protector,” I argued.
“Then have patience,” she urged. “His name does not concern you. He is dead, and his secret—which was also my secret—has gone with him to the grave.” Then, almost in the same breath, she bade me farewell, and a few moments later I saw the station-brougham receding down the long avenue.