ay as well tell me." he said quietly, "for I shall postpone my
journey until I know the whole truth."

"It is not my secret," Aynesworth answered. "Ask her yourself!"

"Very well," Wingrave declared, "I will. I shall return to London
tonight."

"It is not necessary," Aynesworth remarked.

Wingrave started.

"You mean that she is here?" he exclaimed.

Aynesworth drew him towards the window.

"Come," he said, "you shall ask her now."

Wingrave hesitated for a moment. An odd nervousness seemed to have taken
possession of him.

"I do not understand this, Aynesworth," he said. "Why is she here?"

"Go and ask her your question," Aynesworth said. "Perhaps you will
understand then."

Wingrave went down the path which led to the walled garden and the
sea. The tall hollyhocks brushed against his knees; the air, as mild as
springtime, was fragrant with the perfume of late roses. Wingrave took
no note of these things. Once more he seemed to see coming up the path
the little black-frocked child, with the pale face and the great sad
eyes; it was she indeed who rose so swiftly from the hidden seat. Then
Wingrave stopped short for he felt stirring within him all the long
repressed madness of his unlived manhood. It was the weakness against
which he had fought so long and so wearily, triumphant now, so that his
heart beat like a boy's, and the color flamed into his cheeks. And all
the time she was coming nearer, and he saw that the child had become a
woman, and it seemed to him that all the joy of life was alight in her
face, and the one mysterious and wonderful secret of her sex was
shining softly out of her eager eyes. So that, after all, when they met,
Wingrave asked her no questions. She came into his arms with all the
graceful and perfect naturalness of a child who has wandered a little
away from home....

"I am too old for you, dear," he said presently, as they wandered about
the garden, "much too old."

"Age," she answered softly, "what is that? What have we to do with
the years that are past? It is the years to come only which we need
consider, and to think of them makes me almost tremble with happiness.
You are much too rich and too wonderful a personage for a homeless
orphan like me; but," she added, tucking her arm through his with a
contented little sigh, "I have you, and I shall not let you go!"

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Malefactor, by E. Phillips Oppenheim

*** END OF THIS PROJEC