"I have no further knowledge," she a.s.sured me. "I know nothing of her personally."

But her words did not convince me when I remembered how, on explaining my suspicions regarding Aline's complicity in the crime, she had betrayed an abject fear.

"No," I said dubiously. "You are concealing something from me, Muriel."

"Concealing something!" she echoed, with a strange, hollow laugh. "I'm certain I'm not."

"Well," I exclaimed, rather impatiently, "to-day you have treated me, your oldest friend, very unfairly. You tell me that I merely consider you a convenient companion to be patronised when I have no other more congenial acquaintance at hand. That I deny. I may have neglected you," I went on in deep earnestness, as we halted for a moment beneath the great old trees, "but this neglect of late has been owing to the tragedy which has so filled my mind. I have set myself to trace out its author, and nothing shall deter me in my investigations."

She was blanched to the lips. I noticed how the returning colour died from her face again at my words, but continuing, said--

"We have been friends. Those who know of our friendship would refuse to believe the truth if it were told to them, so eager is the world to ridicule the idea of a purely platonic friendship between man and woman.

Yet ours has, until now, been a firm friendship, without a thought of love, without a single affectionate word."

"That is the reason why I regret that it must now end," she answered, faltering, her voice half-choked with emotion.

"End! What do you mean?" I cried, dismayed.

"Ah, no!" she exclaimed, putting up both her hands, as if to shut me out from her gaze. "Don't let us discuss it further. It is sufficient that we can exchange no further confidences. It is best now that this friendship of ours should cease."

"You are annoyed that I should have preferred the society of that strange, mysterious woman to yours," I said. "Well, I regret--I shall always regret that we met--for she has only brought me grief, anxiety, and despair. Cannot you forgive me?"

"I have nothing to forgive," she answered blankly. "To have admired this woman was surely no offence against me?"

"But it was," I declared, grasping her hand against her will.

"Why?"

I held my breath and looked straight into her dark, luminous eyes.

Then, in as firm a voice as I could summon, I said--

"Because--because, Muriel, I love you?"

"Love me!" she gasped, with a look of bewilderment. "No! No!"

"Yes," I went on, in mad impetuousness, "for years I have loved you, but feared to tell you, because you might regard my declaration as a mere foolish fancy on account of our positions, and impossible of realisation because of the probable opposition of my family. But I have now told you the truth, Muriel. I love you!"

And with my hands holding hers, I bent for the first time to kiss her lips. But in an instant she avoided me, and twisted her gloved fingers from my grasp.

"You must be mad!" she cried, with a glint of indignation in her eyes.

"You must be mad to think that I could love you--of all men!"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE OLD LOVE AND THE NEW.

I drew back crushed and humiliated.

Her tone of withering scorn showed that she no longer looked upon me with favour.

"For years I have loved you, Muriel," I said in as calm a tone as I could, "but I have feared to speak until to-day. Now that I have declared the truth cannot you trust me?"

"No," she replied, shaking her head determinedly. "It is useless. I cannot love you."

"Then you have tried and failed?" I gasped in dismay, looking into her white, agitated face.

"Yes, I have tried," she answered after a pause.

"And do you doubt me?" I demanded quickly.

"Without mutual confidence there can be no love between us," she responded in a dismal tone.

"But why can you not trust me? Surely I have given you no great offence?" I said, bewildered at her strange att.i.tude.

"I regret that you should have declared love to me, that's all," she answered, quite philosophically.

"Why? Is it such a very extraordinary proceeding?"

"Yes," she replied petulantly. "You know well that marriage is entirely out of the question. What would your friends say if you hinted at such a thing?"

"The opinion of my friends is nothing to me," I replied. "I am fortunately not dependent upon them. No. I feel sure that is not the reason of your answer. You have some secret reason. What is it, Muriel?"

"Have I not already told you that I am loved?"

"And you reciprocate this man's love?" I said harshly.

She made no response, but I saw in this silence an affirmative.

"Who is he?" I inquired quickly.

"A stranger."

"And you have confidence in him?"

Her eyes filled with tears, and her breast heaved and fell quickly.

"No, no," she cried at last. "Say no more. This subject is painful to both of us. Do not let us discuss it."

"But I love you," I again repeated. "I love you, Muriel!"

"Then forget me," she answered, in a low, hoa.r.s.e voice. "Forget me; for we can in future be only acquaintances--not even friends."

"Then you have promised your lover to end your friendship with me. He is jealous of me!" I cried. "Come, speak the truth," I added harshly.

"I have spoken the truth," she responded, in a voice rather calmer than before.

"And you discard my love?" I said, in tones of bitter reproach.

"Yes," she said, "it is true. I discard your love. You have spoken, and I give you my answer straightforwardly, much as it pains me."