Her lips moved, but no words came. I went over and took her hand. It was quite cold. Suddenly she spoke slowly, and hoarsely, but like some one in a trance. "I cannot tell you," she said simply. "I wanted to see you." "Oh, but you _must_!" Her eyes met mine, and I saw her arched brows contract slightly. "Nobody says, `must' to me," she answered, in a tone that chilled me. "Vera! Vera!" I exclaimed, dismayed at her strange manner, "what is the matter? What has happened to you, darling? Why are you like this? Don't you need my help now? You told me on the telephone that you did." "On the telephone? When was that?" "Why, not three weeks ago. Surely you remember? It was the last time we spoke to each other. You had begun to tell me your address, when suddenly we were cut off." I saw her knit her brows, as though trying to remember. Then, all at once, memory seemed to return. "Ah, yes," she exclaimed, more in her ordinary voice. "I recollect. I wanted your help then. I needed it badly, but now--" "Well, what?" I said anxiously, as she checked herself. "It's too late--now," she whispered. My arm was about her thin waist, and I felt that she shuddered. "Vera, what has happened? Tell me--oh, tell me, dearest!" I took both her small hands in mine. I was seriously alarmed, for there was a strange light in her eyes. "Why did you not come when I wanted you?" she asked, bitterly. "I would have, but how could I without knowing where you were?" She paused in indecision. "I'm sorry. You are too late, Dick," and she shook her head mournfully. "Oh, don't say that," I cried, not knowing what to think. "Has some misfortune befallen you? Tell me what it is. You surely know that you can trust me." "Trust _you_!" There was bitterness, nay mockery, in her voice. "Good heavens, yes! Why not?" I cried. "There is no one in whom I can trust. I can trust you, Mr. Ashton, least of all--now." Evidently she was labouring under some terrible delusion. Had some one slandered me--poisoned her mind against me? "How long have you been here?" I asked suddenly, thinking it best to change the subject for the moment. "Since early this morning," she answered at once. "Did you come here alone?" "Alone? No, he brought me." "`He?' Who is `he'?" "Dago Paulton." "Dago Paulton?" I echoed. "Is he the man Smithson?" I asked shrewdly. "Of course. Who else did you suppose?" Then, suddenly, her expression changed to one of surprise. "But you don't know him, surely," she exclaimed. "You have never even met him. He told me so himself." "No, but I know about him," I said, with recollection crowding upon me. "You don't! You cannot! Who told you about him? And what did they tell you? Oh, this is awful, it is worse than I feared," she exclaimed, in great distress. "And now it is all too late." "Too late for what? To do what?" "To help me. To save me from him." "Does this man want to marry you?"