at least for the sake of
your own pride, that you haven't been cheated into loving and living with
a common thief. Does that make it hurt less?"

"No," she said in a strange tone which made her voice sound like that of
an old woman. "That doesn't make it hurt less. It makes no difference.
I think nothing can ever make any difference. My life is--over."

"Don't, for God's sake, say that! Don't force me to feel a murderer!" he
cried out, sharply.

"There's nothing else to say. I wish I could die to-night."

"If one of us is to die," he said, "let it be me. If you hadn't happened
to see me and call me in when I was under the trees bidding good-bye to
your window, by this time I might have found a way out of the difficulty
without any scandal or trouble to you whatever. No one would have known
that it wasn't an accident----"

"I should have known."

"But if you had, it would have been a relief----"

"No. Because I--I hadn't heard the truth. I didn't understand at all. I
thought you had done _one_ unscrupulous thing. I didn't dream your whole
life was--what it is. I loved you as much as ever. It would have broken
my heart if you----"

"But now that you don't love me, it wouldn't break your heart."

"I don't seem to have any heart," Annesley sighed. "It feels as if it
had crumbled to dust. But it would break my life if you ended yours. If
anything could be worse than what is, it would be that."

"Very well, you can rid yourself of me in another way," the man answered.
"You can denounce me--give me up to 'justice.' If you hand over the
Malindore diamond to Ruthven Smith and tell him how you got it----"

"You must know I wouldn't do that!"

"Why not?"

"Because I--couldn't."

"It needn't spoil your life. No one could blame you. I would tell the
story of how I deceived you. You could free yourself--get a divorce----"

"Don't!" the girl cut him short. "I'm not thinking of myself. I'm
thinking of you. I can't love you again, and I wouldn't if I could, now
that I--know. You're a different man. The one I loved doesn't exist and
never did; yet you've told me your secret, and I'm bound to keep it. I
don't need to stop and reflect about that. But as for what's to become
of me, and how we're to manage not to let people guess that everything's
changed, I don't know! I must think. I must think all to-night, until
to-morrow. Perhaps by that time I can decide. Now--I beg of you to go
and leave me--this moment. I can't bea