"You asked me other things," she answered calmly. "So much of the truth you shall know, at any rate. I have pleaded not guilty to the material action of drawing that cord around the worthless neck of the man whom you knew as Morris Barnes. I plead guilty to knowing why he was murdered, even if I do not know the actual person who committed the deed, and I admit that I was in his rooms for the purpose of robbery. That is all I can tell you." He drew a little nearer to her. "Enough! Do you know what it is that you have said? What are you? Who are you?" She shrugged her shoulders. Somehow, from her side at least, the tragical note which had trembled throughout their interview had passed away. She helped herself to soda water from a siphon on the sideboard. "You appear, somewhat to my surprise," she remarked, "to know that. I wonder at poor little Edith giving me away." "All that I know is that you are living here under a false name," he declared. She shook her head. "My mother's," she told him. "The discarded daughter always has a right to that, you know." Her eyes mocked him. He felt himself helpless. This was the opportunity for which he had longed, and it had come to him in vain. He recognized the fact that his defeat was imminent. She was too strong for him. "I am disappointed," he said, a little wearily. "You will not let me believe in you." "Why should you wish to?" she asked quickly Almost immediately she bit her lip, as though she regretted the words, which had escaped her almost involuntarily. But he was ready enough with his answer. "I cannot tell you that," he said gravely. "I never thought of myself as a particularly emotional person. In fact, I have always rather prided myself on my common sense. That night I think that I went a little mad. Your appearance, you see, was so unusual." She nodded. "I must have been rather a shock to you," she admitted. She watched him closely. The fire in his eyes was not yet quenched. "Yes!" he said, "you were a shock. And the worst of it is--that you remain one!" "Ah!" "You mean to keep me at arm's length," he said slowly, "to tell me as little as possible, and get rid of me. I am not sure that I am willing." She only raised her eyebrows. She said nothing. "You have told me nothing of the things I want to know," he cried passionately. "Who and what are you? What place do you hold in the world?" "None," she answered quietly. "I am an outcast." He glanced around him. "You are rich!" "On the contrary," she assured him, "I am nearly a pauper." "How do you live, then?" he asked breathlessly. She shrugged her shoulders. "Why do you ask me these questions?" she said. "I cannot answer them. Whatever my life may be, I live it to myself." He leaned a little towards her. His breath was coming quickly, and she, too, caught something of the nervous excitement of his manner. "There are better things," he began.