Part 70 (2/2)

”It is over now,” he said. ”The fellow is dead. But, Stella,--he had found out--what I had found out. And he was on his way to you. He meant to--claim you.”

She shuddered--a hard, convulsive shudder--as if some loathsome thing had touched her. ”But--I would never have gone back,” she said.

”No,” he answered grimly, ”you wouldn't. I was here, and I should have shot him. They saved me that trouble.”

”You were--here!” she said.

”Yes,--much nearer to you than you imagined.” Almost curtly he answered.

”Did you think I would leave you at the mercy of those devils? You!” He stopped himself sharply. ”No I was here to protect you--and I would have done it--though I should have shot myself afterwards. Even Bernard would have seen the force of that. But it didn't come to pa.s.s that way.

It wasn't intended that it should. Well, it is over. There are not many who know--only Bernard, Tommy, and Ralston. They are going--if possible--to keep it dark, to suppress his name. I told them they must.”

His voice rang suddenly harsh, but softened again immediately. ”That's all, dear--or nearly all. I hope it hasn't shocked you unutterably. I think the secret is safe anyhow, so you won't have--that--to face. I'm going now. I'll send--Peter--to light the lamp and bring you something to eat. And you'll undress, won't you, and go to bed? It's late.”

He made as if he would rise, but her hands turned swiftly in his, turned and held him fast.

”Everard--Everard, why should you go?” she whispered tensely into the darkness that hid his face.

He yielded in a measure to her hold, but he would not suffer himself to be drawn nearer.

”Why?” she said again insistently.

He hesitated. ”I think,” he said slowly ”that you will find an answer to that question--possibly more than one--when you have had time to think it over.”

”What do you mean?” she breathed.

”Must I put it into words?” he said.

She heard the pain in his voice, but for the first time she pa.s.sed it by unheeded. ”Yes, tell me!” she said. ”I must know.”

He was silent for a little, as if mustering his forces. Then, his hands tight upon hers, he spoke. ”In the first place, you are Dacre's widow, and not--my wife.”

She quivered in his hold. ”And then?” she whispered.

”And then,” he said, ”our baby is dead, so you are free from all--obligations.”

Her hands clenched hard upon his. ”Is that all?”

”No.” With sudden pa.s.sion he answered her. ”There are two more reasons why I should go. One is--that I have made your life a h.e.l.l on earth. You have said it, and I know it to be true. Ah, you had better let me go--and go quickly. For your own sake--you had better!”

But she ignored the warning, holding him almost fiercely. ”And the last reason?” she said.

He was silent for a few seconds, and in his silence there was something of an electric quality, something that pierced and scorched yet strangely drew her. ”Someone else can tell you that,” he said at length.

”It isn't that I am a broken man. I know that wouldn't affect you one way or another. It is that I have done a thing that you would hate--yet that I would do again to-morrow if the need arose. You can ask Ralston what it is! Say I told you to! He knows.”

”But I ask you,” she said, and still her hands gripped his. ”Everard, why don't you tell me? Are you--afraid to tell me?”

”No,” he said.

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