I suppose I ought to have felt some discomposure in her presence, seeing the nature of my thoughts about her husband. I was conscious of nothing, however, but an increased sense of the aversion with which she had at the first inspired me. There was something antipathetic to my nature in this barren reticence, in this material and intellectual threadbareness, one might call it, especially as contrasted with the showy qualities of her partner. I could not dissociate in the two the essential squalor, whether of soul or person, which goes with crime. It was part of the eternal tragedy of her colourlessness, it was a heart-rending consequence of her malleability, that she was thus moulded to repel where she most sought for sympathy. But how could I know that? Now, to be conscious of these feelings in myself, and of the certainty that her hidden eyes, holding me at a disadvantage, were probing and interpreting them, filled me with a sort of helpless anger. I might even have been sharp, plain with her under the irritation, had she not suddenly taken the initiative. With a swift movement, she put a hand upon my arm, looking the while, quick and nervous, about her; and then she entreated me in a hoarse, small voice: “Leave him alone; don’t watch him; what are you thinking of? He’ll not let his plans miscarry for such as you. I warn you. You’d better take my warning.” I was so shocked, so dumfoundered, that for a moment I could answer her not a word. Here, it seemed, was the moral of all my self-pluming astuteness. But the lesson gripped me on the instant. “You speak of Mr Dalston?” I said. “Yes,” she answered. “He’s gone to London, or I shouldn’t have dared to venture this.” Even so, it seemed, the terrific spectre of him stalked her fancy, for the motion of her head never ceased to suggest a fearful watchfulness. “He knows that you are observing him--plotting against him, perhaps. There is never anything hidden from him long. You’ll be a fool if you don’t desist.” “Why should he fear observation?” I muttered some commonplace about conscience. “Why?” she said. “How can I tell? I know he’s here to carry out some scheme of force or fraud. I know he’s got some claim on Lady Skene. It’s all nothing to me. Where he goes, I go; and what he wills, that thing comes to happen. Do you wish to die yet--horribly, secretly, and no one guess how or where?” “I neither wish nor intend to.” “Intend? That sounds brave. You’ll need some bravery.” “Is he capable of it--going to those lengths? Why do you tell me all this?” “For yourself--not for him.” “How have I earned your consideration?” She seemed to look at me intently. Her hands sought my arms; but I backed instinctively from their touch. She stopped at once, and I was sorry. But not even this new aspect of her could conquer my repugnance.