"And that--the instant liking--was the basis for our confidence in each other. Was it not?" "It must have been. I trusted you without hesitation." "And I you.... And I did tell you the truth.... But not all of it." "What have you left untold?" he asked. "Enough to--to frighten me--a little. I am beginning to be afraid--just enough afraid to feel troubled--rather deeply troubled about--you." "About _me_!" "Because--we are friends. I don't understand how it has happened so quickly. But it has happened to us--hasn't it?" "Yes," he said, "it has. I--I am already--devoted to--our friendship." "I am, too. It seems odd, doesn't it. I have had no friends among men. This is new to me. I don't know what to do about it. I want to be so loyal about it--I wish to be what a man--such a man as you are--desires of a friend--what he requires of friendship.... _Do_ you understand? I am really a trifle bewildered--with the surprise and pleasure of friendship--and with its obligations.... But I am very sure that unselfishness is one of its obligations and that truth is another." "Both are part of you." "They seem to be now. And so--because we are friends--don't go to the wharf with me. Because I think I may be--arrested. And if I am--it may go hard with me." She said it so gently, and her eyes were so clear and sweet that for a moment he did not grasp the subtler significance of her appeal. "You _can't_ be involved seriously," he insisted. "I'm afraid it is possible." "How?" "I can only guess how. I may be wrong. But I dare not risk involving you." "Can't you tell me a little more?" "Please don't ask." "Very well. But I shall not leave you." "Please." "No. You ask too little of friendship." "I do not wish to ask too much. Let me get clear of this affair if I can. If I can't--let me at least remember that I have not involved you in my--ruin." "Your ruin!" "Yes. It may come to that. I don't know. I don't know exactly what all this tangle means--what really threatens me, what I have to dread. But I am afraid--afraid!" Her voice became unsteady for a moment and she stared straight ahead of her at the yellow haze which loomed nearer and nearer above the suburbs of London. He slipped one arm under hers, quietly, and his hand fell over both of hers, where they rested clasped tightly on her lap. "This won't do," he said coolly. "You are not to be frightened whatever happens. We must go through with this affair, you and I. I know you have plenty of courage." "Yes--except about you----" "I stand or fall with you." "Please, you must not----" "I must and shall. Within the next few minutes you must regain your composure and self-command. Will you?" "Yes." "Because our safety may depend on your coolness." "I know it." "Will you remember that we are married?" "Yes." "Will it be difficult for you to carry out that rôle?" "I--don't know what to do. Could you tell me?" "Yes. If you speak to me call me by my first name. Do you remember it?"