And she burst again into a flood of tears, stirred by the painful remembrance of the past. I stood there holding her for the first time in my arms. And she buried her face upon my shoulder, trembling and sobbing as our two hearts beat in unison. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. MAKES PLAIN A WOMAN'S FEAR. "Tell me," I said at last, full of sympathy for her in her dire unhappiness, "tell me, Tibbie, about this man Rumbold." For some moments she was silent. Her pale lips trembled. "What is there to tell?" she exclaimed hoarsely. "There was nothing extraordinary in our meeting. We met at a country house, as I met a hundred other men. Together we passed some idle summer days, and at last discovered that we loved each other." "Well?" "Well--that is all," she answered in a strange, bitter voice. "It is all at an end now." "I never recollect meeting him," I remarked, reflectively. "No--you never have," she said. "But please do not let us discuss him further," she urged. "The memories of it all are too painful. I was a fool!" "A fool for loving him?" I asked, for so platonic were our relations that I could speak to her with the same frankness as her own brother. "For loving him!" she echoed, looking straight at me. "No--no. I was a fool because I allowed myself to be misled, and believed what I was told without demanding proof." "Why do you fear the man who found you in Glasgow?" "Ah! That is quite another matter," she exclaimed quickly. "I warn you to be careful of John Parham. A word from me would place him under arrest; but, alas! I dare not speak. They have successfully closed my lips!" Was she referring, I wondered, to that house with the fatal stairs? "He is married, I suppose?" "Yes--and his wife is in utter ignorance of who and what he is. She lives at Sydenham, and believes him to be something in the City. I know the poor woman quite well." It was upon the tip of my tongue to make inquiry about Miss O'Hara, but by so doing I saw I should admit having acted the spy. I longed to put some leading questions to her concerning the dead unknown in Charlton Wood, but in view of Eric's terrible denunciation how could I? Where was Eric? I asked her, but she declared that she was in ignorance. "Some time ago," she said, "I heard that he was in Paris. He left England suddenly, I believe." "Why?" "The real reason I don't know. I only know from a friend who saw him one day sitting before a _cafe_ in the Boulevard des Italiens." "Your friend did not speak to him?" I inquired quickly. "No." "Then it might have been a mistake. The person might, I mean, have merely resembled Eric Domville. Was your informant an intimate friend?" "A friend--and also an enemy." "Ah! Many of us have friends of that sort!" I remarked, whereat she sighed, recollecting, no doubt, the many friends who had played her false.