Still she had admitted to me having loved him, and that had aroused the fierce fire of jealousy within me. I felt that I had a right to know who and what he was.
We sat chatting together, as lovers will, and when evening fell we went out together and dined at a restaurant. I suppose that if we had regarded conventionalities I ought not to have visited her at her lodgings, yet I found her a woman overwhelmed by a sadness; one in whose life there had been so little joy, and whose future was only a blank sea of despair. My presence, I think, cheered her, for her soft cheeks flushed, her eyes grew bright when she chatted with me, and her breast heaved and fell when I spoke of my affection.
She was so different to other women; so calm, so thoughtful, so sweet of temperament, though I knew that in her inner consciousness she was suffering all the tortures which come to the human mind when overshadowed by a crime. It was because of that I tried to take her out of herself, to give her a little pleasure beyond that dreary street in Bayswater, and to prevent her thoughts ever wandering back to that terrible night in Kilburn when those brutal men forced her to touch the cold, white face of the dead.
When dining together in the big hall of the Trocadero the crowd and the music brightened her, for evening gaiety in London is infectious, and she expressed pleasure that we had gone there. Over dinner I told her how for the present we had abandoned the search at Caldecott, and related to her Usher’s remarkable story.
“And this man Bennett actually cast the poor fellow away without food or water!” she cried, when she had heard me to the end. “Why, that was as much murder as the shooting of the unfortunate Dane! I hate the man, Paul!” she added. “Truth to tell, I myself live in fear of him. He would not hesitate to kill me—that I know.”
“No, no,” I said reassuringly. “He dare not do that. Besides, you now have me as your protector, Dorothy.” And I looked straight into her great dark eyes.
“Ah! I know,” she faltered. “But—well, there are reasons why I fear he may carry out his threat.”
“What!” I exclaimed. “Has he threatened you?”
She was silent for a few moments, then nodded in the affirmative.
I knew the reason. It was because she was aware of the secret at Kilburn. Perhaps he feared she might expose him, just as ten years before he had feared Robert Usher.