That ring of earnestness in her voice it seemed impossible to counterfeit. Puzzled, I gazed at her, striving to read her countenance. Her head was bent, her colour changing; do what she would she could not keep the blood quite steady in her cheek. "But may I not know, Eva?" I implored. "Surely you will not refuse to warn or guide one who is so entirely devoted to you as I am?" "I cannot warn you, except to say that treachery may be sweetly concealed, and danger lurk where you may least suspect its presence." "You wish to place a gulf between us," I cried impatiently. "But that's impossible. I cannot rest without you; I am drawn to you as though by some power of magic. I am yours in life, in death." "Ah, no!" she cried suddenly, putting up her hands to her face. "Speak not of death. You are making vows that must ere long be broken," and she sighed deeply. Was not her attitude, standing there pale and trembling, the attitude of a guilty woman who feared the revelation of her crime? I looked again at her, and becoming convinced that it was, I regarded her with inexpressible scorn and love, horror and adoration. She seemed to have changed of late. She pondered over my words, weighing them without any idle misleadings of fancy. Did she never dream as she had done when we first met? "Why must my vows be broken when my love for you is so fervent, Eva?" I demanded, in a voice a trifle hard, I think. She shuddered and gave a gesture of despair as if there were, indeed, no defence for her. A great darkness was over my mind like the plague of an unending night. "I have warned you," she responded, in a strange low tone. "If you really love me as you say you do, remain away from this house." "Why are you so anxious that I should not visit you?" I demanded, puzzled. Then I added: "Of course in order to gain your love I am prepared to accept any conditions you may propose. If I do not again come here, will you meet me in London?" "I can say nothing of the future," she answered slowly. "For your own sake--indeed, for mine also--do not come here again. Promise me, I beg of you." This request was the more curious in the light of recent events. Was it that she could not bear me to kiss the hand that had attempted to slay me? "All this is very strange, Eva," I said with a sudden seriousness. "I cannot understand your attitude in the least. Why not be more explicit?" The heart of man is an open page to women. Love, though greatest of all selfish ecstasies, must yet have self-forgetfulness. She had none. She glanced at me and seemed to divine my thoughts. She cast a furtive look across the room to the lawn beyond, and I read on her face the birth of some new design. "I have been quite explicit," she laughed, with a strenuous attempt to preserve her self-control. "I merely give you advice to keep away from this house." "Yes, but you give me no reason. You do not speak plainly and openly," I protested.