THE YELLOW DOVE
“I was afraid you would. You have spoken to no one.”
“No,” proudly. “Hardly. After what I went through.” And, with an air of restraint, she told him everything.
He listened, a serious look in his eyes.
“It was my fault. I should have left them in the machine. I got away scot free.”
“Yes, I know. I saw you.”
“You poor child,” he said softly. “I was desperate. I thought it necessary. How can I ever thank you?”
“You can’t.” The tones of her voice were strange.
“I’d jolly well give my life for you, Doris. You know that,” he said earnestly.
“It’s something less than that that I want, and something more—your word of honor.”
“My word?”
“Yes,” she went on quietly. “To forswear your German kinship and give me an oath of loyalty to England. Difficult as it is, I’ll believe you.”
“Sh—!” He glanced toward the door. All the windows of the room were closed. “He told you that I was a German spy?” he whispered anxiously.
“You forget that I had proof of that already.”
He sat up and looked into the fire. “I hoped you wouldn’t read ’em. It has done no good.”
“I have no regrets. I will not betray England, Cyril, even for you.”
He rose and paced the rug in front of her for a moment. Then he spoke incredulously in a whisper.
“You mean that you won’t give ’em to me?”
“I mean that—precisely.”
“But that is impossible,” he went on, with greater
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