“Ah, it is a long story. I dare not face that man, Wilfrid. Surely that is sufficient.”
“No. It is not sufficient,” I replied. “You managed to escape and get up to Fort William.”
“Ah! The man at the hotel told you so, I suppose,” she said. “Yes, I did escape, and narrowly. I was betrayed.”
“By whom?”
“Unwittingly betrayed by a friend, I think,” she replied, as we walked on together towards the lake. On a winter’s morning there are few people in Leazes Park, therefore we had the place to ourselves, save for the keeper strolling idly some distance away.
“Sybil,” I exclaimed presently, halting again, and laying my hand upon her shoulder, “why are you not straightforward and outspoken with me?”
I recollected the postscript of the dead man’s letter which I had secured in Manchester—the allegation that she was playing me false.
Her eyes were cast down in confusion at my plain question, yet the next instant she assumed a boldness that was truly surprising.
“I don’t understand you,” she declared with a light nervous little laugh.
“Then I suppose I must speak more plainly,” I said. “It is a pity, Sybil, that you did not tell me the truth from your own lips.”