urged, yet I knew well that sight of the mysterious woman had recalled to her memory some evil and terrible recollection that she had been striving to put from her for ever.
'But I do trouble about it, Claude,' she said in a harsh, apprehensive voice. 'I fear for you more than I fear for myself. She is your enemy, as well as mine. Against her we are, both of us, powerless.'
I pricked up my ears at her words.
'What do you mean, Roseye?' I asked. c How can she be my enemy? I've never before set eyes upon the woman!'
'Ah! you don't know, dear—so you can't understand,' was my love's impatient reply.
'No. I want you to tell me,' I said. 'If danger really besets both of us, is it not your duty to explain the facts to me, and leave me to take steps to protect ourselves?'
'Yes. I would tell you, dear—only—only'
'Only what?'
'Only—well—only I can't!' she answered evasively. Then, a second later, she added: 'I told you, Claude, long ago that I couldn't tell you anything.'
'You hold some secret; and yet you conceal it from me!' I remarked in a tone of reproach.
'Because—because I am compelled. I—I am in fear—in deadly fear, Claude!'
'In fear of what?' I asked, for I saw by her demeanour that such was the nerve-strain that she was on the point of tears.
For a second she hesitated. Then she said:
