“If,” she went on in a low, soft voice, every note of which rang in his heart--“if I had been in your place, and you had come to me and asked me to confide in you, as I now ask you, do you think I would have refused? No! I could not have done so! See,” she pleaded, touching him timidly, tenderly, “see how little it is I ask! I do not want you to tell me why you have refused any explanation to the world at large; no, I don’t do that! I only ask you to tell me the name of the man for whom you are enduring all this, whose burden of crime you are bearing--will you not do that? Can you refuse me?” She glided nearer to him imperceptibly. Before he knew it she was on her knees at his side, her hand, soft and quivering as a bird, upon his arm. “Ah, tell me! Tell me!” she murmured. He took her hand and held it in both his, his white face working like a man’s in a mortal agony, his eyes gazing into hers with intense entreaty. “Oh, don’t ask me! don’t, don’t!” he said, hoarsely. “I cannot tell you! It is impossible! Will you believe that? If you knew what it costs me to refuse you! If you knew how I dread that you should come to think me guilty----” He stopped and compressed his lips as her face flushed and her hand closed on his arm. “Go on!” she breathed, “go on!” He turned his head aside. “No, I can say no more! Not one word. There is danger----” He stopped. “Miss Vanley----” He started, and put his hand to his brow with a sudden gesture of despair and sorrow. “Ah, I forgot! Forgive me. Does he--your husband--know?” Her face paled, and her lips twitched. “No, he does not know. I--I have not seen him since the wedding.” He was silent a moment; and she, glancing up at him, saw a strange look of trouble and anxiety in his face, and she knew that he was thinking of her. “I--I have a message for him,” he said, slowly, as if he were guarding every word. “It--it is a matter of business, which I had intended telling him before they arrested me. Will you ask him if he will be so good as to come and see me? No! do not!” he said, suddenly; “I will write. If--if it be possible, do not let him know that you have been here. Tell me who knows it already.” “There is Bessie--she came with me; and the coachman and the colonel,” she replied, listlessly and indifferently. “Good, faithful Bessie,” he said, thoughtfully. “You--you will keep her near you. She loves you with all her heart and soul.” “Yes, I will keep her; you sent her.” He looked at her gratefully. “And those are all who know? It may be kept from the scandal-mongers, even now. You must go.” He rose quickly, and she stood looking at him. “They need not know that you have seen me--that you have come in contact with the contamination of a prison cell. You may have come to see Colonel Summerford!” She shook her head. “I care nothing for all this,” she said; “all the world may know.”