“And the only relic of the bygone romance is that lock of hair? Yes, I know all. I have seen all. And your secret is, I assure you, safe with me.”
“But this woman who—well, who is attracted towards me? What is her name?” he demanded, not without some interest.
“You surely know her,” she answered. “The woman who is your best and most devoted friend—the woman in whom you should surely confide before attempting to take such a step as you are contemplating to-night—Lady Richard Nevill.”
His lips again set themselves hard at the mention of that name. Was it uttered in sarcasm, or was she in real earnest? He regarded her keenly for a moment, and then inclined to the latter opinion.
“The relations existing between Lady Richard and myself are our own affair,” he said, vexed by her reference to a subject which of all others, next to the knowledge of his sin, perturbed him most.
“But your secret concerns her,” Muriel declared. “Many times you have confided in her and asked her help at the various crises in your career. Why not now? Her very life is yours.”
“Am I to understand that you wish to pay me compliments, Miss Mortimer?”
“No. This is hardly the time for paying compliments. I speak the truth, Mr Chisholm. She loves you.”
“Then if that is really so, it seems an additional misfortune has overtaken me,” he replied hoarsely, unable as yet to grasp her motive.
“All the world knows that she is madly in love with you, and would be ready to become your wife to-morrow. Under all the circumstances I must say that your indifference strikes me as almost unbelievable.”