"No," she sighed. "Love is forbidden me. Hatred takes its place; a fierce, deadly hatred, in which vengeance is untempered by justice, and fatality is always inevitable. Now that I confess, will you not cast me aside? I have come here to you to urge you to do this ere it is too late." "You speak so strangely that I'm bewildered," I declared. "I have told you of my love, and will not relinquish you." "But for the sake of the woman who loves you. She will break her heart." "Muriel does not love me," I answered. "I have spoken no word of affection to her. We were friends--that is all." "Reflect! Is it possible for a girl in such a position as Muriel Moore to be your friend without loving you! You are wealthy, she is poor. You give her dinners with champagne at the gayest restaurants; you take her to stalls at theatres, or to a box at the Alhambra; you invite her to these rooms, where she drinks tea, and plays your piano; and it is all so different from her humdrum life at Madame Gabrielle's. Place yourself for one moment in her position, with a salary of ten shillings a-week and dresses provided by the establishment, leading a life of wearying monotony from nine in the morning till seven at night, trying on bonnets, and persuading ignorant, inartistic women to buy your wares. Would you not be flattered, nay, dazzled, by all these attentions which you show her? Would you not become convinced that your admirer loved you if he troubled himself so much about you?" Her argument was plain and forcible. I had never regarded the matter in that light. "Really, Aline," I said, "I'm beginning to think that you are possessed of some power that is supernatural." She laughed--a laugh that sounded strangely hollow. "I tell you this--I argue with you for your own sake, to save you from the danger which now encompasses you. I would be your protector because you trust me so implicitly, only that is impossible." In an instant I recollected her declaration to her bony-faced companion in the Park. Had she actually resolved to kill me? "Why should I relinquish you in favour of one for whom I have no affection?" I argued. "Why should you kiss the hand that must smite you?" she asked. Her lips were bloodless; her face of ashen pallor. "You are not yourself to-day," I said. "It is not usual for a woman who is loved to speak as you speak. The love of a man is usually flattering to a woman." "I have come to save you, and have spoken plainly." "What, then, have I done that I deserve punishment?" I inquired in breathless eagerness. "You love me." "Surely the simple offence of being your lover is not punishable by death?"