Of a sudden, however, she sprang aside quickly, and left me grasping at air.
“Ah!” she cried, wildly horrified at a sudden discovery. “There is blood upon your hands—his blood!”
“I had forgotten,” I apologised quickly. “Forgive me; I cannot see, and was not aware that my hands were unclean.”
“It’s too terrible,” she gasped hoarsely. “You have placed those stained hands upon my face, as though to taunt me.”
“With what?” I inquired, breathlessly interested.
But she did not reply. She only held her breath, while her heart beat quickly, and by her silence I felt convinced that by her involuntary ejaculation she had nearly betrayed herself.
The sole question which occupied my thoughts at that moment was whether she was not the actual assassin. I forgot my own critical position. I recollected not the remarkable adventures that had befallen me that night. I thought not of the ghastly fate prepared for me by my unknown enemies. All my thoughts were concentrated upon the one problem—the innocence or guilt of that unseen, soft-spoken woman before me.
“And now,” she said at last—“now that you have satisfied yourself of my personal appearance, are you prepared to accept the conditions?”
“I confess to having some hesitation in doing so,” I answered, quite frankly.
“That is not at all surprising. But the very fact of your own defencelessness should cause you to ally yourself with one who has shown herself to be your protectress, and seeks to remain your friend.”