“Because in Glasgow I was recognised by one of my enemies,” she said. “Ah! you don’t know what a narrow escape I had. He traced me—and came from London to hunt me down and denounce me. Yet I managed to meet him with such careless ease that he was disarmed, and hesitated. And while he hesitated I escaped. He is still following me. He may be here, in Newcastle, for all I know. It we meet again, Wilfrid,” she added in a hoarse, determined voice, “if we meet again it will all be hopeless. My doom will be sealed. I shall kill myself.”
“No, no,” I urged. “Come, don’t contemplate such a step as that!”
“I fear to face him. I can never face him.”
“You mean John Parham.”
“Who told you?” she started quickly. “How did you know his name?”
“I guessed it. They told me at the hotel that you had had a visitor, and that you had soon afterwards escaped to the north.”
“Do you actually know Parham?”
“I met him once,” was my reply, but I did not mention the fellow’s connection with the house with the fatal stairs.
“Does he know that we are friends?”
“How can I tell? But why do you fear him?”