“My freedom!” echoed my wife. She was pale as death; her hot, dry lips moved convulsively, and she glanced at me in feverish apprehension. “How can you give me my freedom?”
“By revealing the truth,” Sonia answered. “When you have told Geoffrey all, then will I disclose the terrible secret that I have selfishly kept from you because I envied you your happiness.”
The silence remained unbroken for some moments. Ella stood with her gloved hands clasped before her. The haughty demeanour of the daughter of the Romanoffs had entirely forsaken her; with head bent she stood immovable as a statue. Terror and despair showed themselves in her clear, bright eyes. It seemed as though she mistrusted this woman of evil repute, whose assertions half induced her to confess to me.
“Come,” Sonia said, “speak, and freedom, love and happiness are yours.”
Her breast, beneath its lace and flimsy muslin, heaved and fell. Her fingers hitched themselves nervously in the trimming of her gown. Then, at last, with sudden resolve, she turned, and with terror-stricken eyes fixed upon me, said in English, in low, faltering tone,—
“To confess to you, Geoffrey, will cause you to hate, ah! even to curse me. After to-day I fear we shall part never again to meet.”
“No, no,” I cried, advancing to take her soft hand in mine. “Tell me your secret. Then let us hear what Sonia has to reveal.”
“Ah! mine is a wretched, horrible story of duplicity,” my wife faltered, standing in an attitude of deep dejection. “Although I am a Grand Duchess, the bearer of an Imperial name, I can hope for neither pity nor mercy from you, nor from the world outside.”
“Why?”
“Because I have foully deceived you. I am a spy!”