she could see a look of suffering cross his face,
and coming still closer, she sank down on the ottoman, laying her hand
on his. "John...oh, John, spare me," she whispered.

For a moment his hand lay quiet under hers; then he drew it out, and
enclosed her trembling fingers.

"Very well--I'll give him a chance--I'll do nothing," he said, suddenly
putting his other arm about her.

The reaction caught her by the throat, forcing out a dry sob or two; and
as she pressed her face against him he raised it up and gently kissed
her.

But even as their lips met she felt that they were sealing a treaty with
dishonour. That his kiss should come to mean that to her! It was
unbearable--worse than any personal pain--the thought of dragging him
down to falsehood through her weakness.

She drew back and rose to her feet, putting aside his detaining hand.

"No--no! What am I saying? It can't be--you must tell the truth." Her
voice gathered strength as she spoke. "Oh, forget what I said--I didn't
mean it!"

But again he seemed sunk in inaction, like a man over whom some baneful
lethargy is stealing.

"John--John--forget!" she repeated urgently.

He looked up at her. "You realize what it will mean?"

"Yes--I realize.... But it must be.... And it will make no difference
between us...will it?"

"No--no. Why should it?" he answered apathetically.

"Then write--tell Mr. Langhope not to give him the place. I want it
over."

He rose slowly to his feet, without looking at her again, and walked
over to the desk. She sank down on the ottoman and watched him with
burning eyes while he drew forth a sheet of note-paper and began to
write.

But after he had written a few words he laid down his pen, and swung his
chair about so that he faced her.

"I can't do it in this way," he exclaimed.

"How then? What do you mean?" she said, starting up.

He looked at her. "Do you want the story to come from Wyant?"

"Oh----" She looked back at him with sudden insight. "You mean to tell
Mr. Langhope yourself?"

"Yes. I mean to take the next train to town and tell him."

Her trembling increased so much that she had to rest her hands against
the edge of the ottoman to steady herself. "But if...if after
all...Wyant should not speak?"

"Well--if he shouldn't? Could you bear to owe our safety to _him_?"

"Safety!"

"It comes to that, doesn't it, if _we're_ afraid to speak?"

She sat silent, letting the bitter truth of this sink into her