know the truth. He suspected something. By her own action in
writing those letters she had aroused suspicion against herself. She
regretted, yet what was the use of regret? Her own passionate words had
revealed to him something which he had not suspected. And he was coming
down there, to Woodnewton, to demand the truth! He might even then be on
his way!

If he asked her point-blank, what could she reply? She dare not tell him
the truth. There were now but two roads open--either death by her own
hand or to lie to him.

Could she tell him an untruth? No. She loved him, therefore she could
not resort to false declarations and deceit. Better--far better--would
it be that she took her own life. Better, she thought, if Mr. Hamilton
had not plunged into the river after her. If her life had ended, Walter
Murie would at least have been spared the bitter knowledge of a
disgraceful truth. Her face grew pale and her mouth hardened at the
thought.

She loved him with all the fierce passion of her young heart. He was her
hero, her idol. Before her tear-dimmed eyes his dear, serious face rose,
a sweet memory of what had been. Tender remembrances of his fond kisses
still lingered with her. She recollected how around her waist his strong
arm would steal, and how slowly and yet irresistibly he would draw her
in his arms in silent ecstasy.

Alas! that was all past and over. They loved each other, but she was now
face to face with what she had so long dreaded--face to face with the
inevitable. She must either confess the truth, and by so doing turn his
love to hatred, or else remain silent and face the end.

She reread the letter still seated at the piano, her elbows resting
inertly upon the keys. Then she lifted her pale face again to the
window, gazing out blankly upon the village street, so dull, so silent,
so uninteresting. The thought of Mr. Hamilton--the man who held a secret
of hers, and who only a few hours before had rescued her from the peril
in which Felix Krail had placed her--again recurred to her. Was it not
remarkable that he, Walter's old friend, should come down into that
neighbourhood? There was some motive in his visit! What could it be? He
had spoken of Hungary, a country which had always possessed for her a
strange fascination. Was it not quite likely that, being Walter's
friend, Hamilton on his return to London would relate the exciting
incident of the river? Had he seen Krail? And, if so, did he know him?

Th