"I have no one else I can trust, Wilfrid, as I trust you. You are a man of honour and I am an honest woman, even though my enemies have whispered their calumnies regarding me. You are my friend; if you were not I surely dare not ask you to help me in this," and her voice faltered as she averted her gaze. "I want you--I want you to pretend that you are my husband." "Your husband," I exclaimed, staring at her. "Yes," she cried quickly. "To place myself in a position of safety I must first live in a crowded part of London where I can efface my identity; and secondly, for appearances' sake, as well as for another and much stronger motive, I must have a husband. Will you, Wilfrid, pretend to be mine?" Her request utterly nonplussed me, and she noticed my hesitation. "If you will only consent to go into hiding with me I can escape," she urged, quickly. "You can easily contrive to live in Bolton Street and pose as my husband in another part of the world; while I--well, I simply disappear. There will be a loud hue and cry after me, of course, but when I'm not found, the mater and the others will simply put my disappearance down to my eccentricity. They will never connect us, for you will take good care to be seen in London leading your usual life, and indeed seriously troubled over my disappearance. They will never suspect." "But why must you appear to have a husband?" I asked, extremely puzzled. "I have a reason--a strong one," she answered, earnestly. "I have enemies, and my hand will be strengthened against them the instant they believe that I have married." "That may be so," I said, dubiously. "But where do you suggest taking up your abode?" "Camberwell would be a good quarter," she responded. "There is a large working-class population there. We could take furnished apartments with some quiet landlady. You are a compositor on one of the morning newspapers, and are out at work all night. Sometimes, too, you have to work overtime--I think they call it--and then you are away the greater part of the day also. I don't want you to tie yourself to me too much, you see," she added, smiling. "We shall give out that we've been married a year, and by your being a compositor, your absence won't be remarked. So you see you can live in Bolton Street just the same, and pay me a daily visit to Camberwell, just to cheer me up." "But surely you could never bear life in a back street, Tibbie," I said, looking at her utterly bewildered at her suggestion. "You would have to wear print dresses, cook, and clean up your rooms."