Wiggins looked at her with an expression of earnest entreaty on his face, with which there was also mingled an air of indescribable sadness. “It is necessary,” said he, in a mournful voice. “Can you not bring yourself to bear with it? You do not know what is at stake. Some day all will be explained.” “This is silly,” exclaimed Edith. “No explanation is possible. I insist on leaving this place at once. If you refuse to let me go, it will be worse for you than for me.” “You do not know what you ask,” said Wiggins. “I ask you,” said Edith, sternly and proudly, “to open those gates to your mistress.” Wiggins shook his head. “I ask you to open those gates,” continued Edith. “If you let me go now, I promise not to prosecute you--at least for this. I will forget to-day and yesterday.” Saying this, she looked at him inquiringly. But Wiggins shook his head as before. “It can not be,” said he. “You decide, then, to refuse my demand?” said Edith, impatiently. “I must,” said Wiggins, with a heavy sigh. “It is necessary. All is at stake. You do not know what you are doing.” “It is evident to me,” said Edith, mastering herself by a strong effort, “that you are playing a desperate game, but at the same time you are trusting much to chance. Why did you wish me to come here? It was by the merest chance that I decided to come. It was also by another chance that I entered those gates which you now shut against my departure. Few would have done it.” “Your presence seemed necessary to my plans,” said Wiggins, slowly. “What those plans are I can not yet confide to you. You are concerned in them as much as I am. Opposition will be of no avail, and will only injure you. But I hope you will not try to oppose me. I entreat you to bear with me. I entreat you to try to put a little confidence in me. I was your father's friend; and I now implore you, that daughter whom he loved so dearly, for your father's sake--yes, and for the sake of your sainted mother--not to--” “This is mere hypocrisy,” interrupted Edith. “My father was one with whom one like you can have nothing in common. You add to your crimes by this treatment of his daughter. What you have already been guilty of toward him you alone know. If you hope for mercy hereafter, do not add to your guilt.” “Guilt!” cried Wiggins, in an awful voice. He started back, and regarded her with eyes of utter horror. “Guilt!” he repeated, in a voice so low that it was scarcely above a whisper--“and she says that word!” Edith looked at him with unchanged severity. “You made a great mistake,” said she, coldly and sternly, “when you drove Miss Plympton away. If you hope to keep me imprisoned here, you will only destroy yourself. I have a friend who knows you, and who will know before evening that I am here under restraint. She will never rest until she effects my deliverance. Have you counted on that?”