“I am sure of it, dear,” I said. “It is your love for her. But I have a greater claim on your love now, Ira, and I must ask you, for the sake of that claim, to forbear questioning me at present. The secret is not my own--at least, not all my own--though it affects my interests very closely. Sometimes, even, I dare to hope of it a better claim to you than I possess now. But you mustn’t ask me, dear. There are ordeals, and interviews, and all sorts of unhappy explanations to be gone through with before I can trust myself to reveal it to you. But you mustn’t suppose, in the meantime, that I am Lady Skene’s enemy. Indeed, if that is true which I expect to be true, my interference will benefit her--in one way, at least. I am trying to circumvent a scoundrel, Ira, and chance has put some very wonderful evidence in my hands. I must not tell you more than that.” “You are not in any danger--you yourself, Richard?” she asked fearfully. “No, you love,” I said--“not more that most people who set themselves to battle against the forces of villainy. And now I am double-armoured in your love. It will be such a joy to me, Ira, to put it all out of mind when I am alone, and let your little image in to talk with me, and laugh with me, and sleep with me, too, for you can’t help it.” She gazed into my face a little longer in great doubt and trouble, until the tears coming into her eyes made her blink, and she turned away. “I wish,” she said woefully, “I could be thought strong enough to bear the burden with you--to help you, Richard.” “Help me?” I cried--“never so much as by holding yourself and your dear love apart from all this debasing atmosphere of gloom and secrecy. I want to think of you out in the sunshine, Ira--something sweet and unspoiled for my heart to rest on. Now be a sensible dear. I shall come up to the house to see you to-morrow.” “You will?” she whispered, brightening through her grief. “Come early, Richard.” “Why not?” I cried cheeringly. “Small profits and quick returns, Ira, as Johnny would say. I sha’n’t let the grass grow under my feet, lest you change your mind.” She gave me a lovely tremulous smile in reassurance for that, and we went on together again. The wind had dropped, almost suddenly, and the cold white woods were full of a wonderful stillness. As we passed by the darkling lodge, I thought of the figure hidden away within its shadows, and a glow of mighty triumph went through my veins, picturing that confederacy of love and death out of which was to be wrought for me a new manhood and a name. CHAPTER XXII. A VISIT FROM MR DALSTON