“Well?”
“Well—that is all,” she answered in a strange, bitter voice. “It is all at an end now.”
“I never recollect meeting him,” I remarked, reflectively.
“No—you never have,” she said. “But please do not let us discuss him further,” she urged. “The memories of it all are too painful. I was a fool!”
“A fool for loving him?” I asked, for so platonic were our relations that I could speak to her with the same frankness as her own brother.
“For loving him!” she echoed, looking straight at me. “No—no. I was a fool because I allowed myself to be misled, and believed what I was told without demanding proof.”
“Why do you fear the man who found you in Glasgow?”
“Ah! That is quite another matter,” she exclaimed quickly. “I warn you to be careful of John Parham. A word from me would place him under arrest; but, alas! I dare not speak. They have successfully closed my lips!”
Was she referring, I wondered, to that house with the fatal stairs?
“He is married, I suppose?”