“Reasons of my own. Strong reasons.”
“And may I not know them?” I asked with some resentment.
“No, Claude—I can never reveal the truth—not even to you.” She was now quite her old self.
“But I thought we trusted each other blindly and implicitly,” I protested. “You surely know how deeply and fondly I love you, my darling.”
“Exactly,” she exclaimed, with one of those sweet and winning smiles of hers. “That’s just my point. If you love me as you declare—and I believe you do—then you will trust me, and you will, when I assure you that I cannot tell you what has happened, refrain from further questioning me.”
Her argument was, certainly, one to which I could not very well reply. It was a curious argument, and aroused suspicion within me.
She had now grown quite calm, and I could plainly see that she had at last recalled the past, yet she did not intend to make any statement whatever regarding it.
Why? This disinclination to reveal to me the slightest fact was, in itself, most extraordinary. I then found myself reflecting upon the discovery of that secret memorandum in her card-case, and the allegation made against her by the red-tabbed Intelligence officer.
I was on the point of telling her what had been discovered—the purport of the cipher-message and the suspicion which rested upon her. Yet, would that induce her to be frank and tell me the truth? I decided that it would not, therefore I said nothing. Instead, I remarked in a low, sympathetic voice: “I really think, darling, that it is due to me—to your people also—that you should tell us the truth of what happened to you, and of the identity of your enemies.”
“I have already told you, Claude,” was her quiet response. “If you really love me, then you should at least trust me.”