“I can understand how desperate you have become, living in this ’Sleepy Hollow.’  A week of it would, I admit, drive me to distraction.”

“Then if you understand my present position you will know that I am fearless of you, or of anybody else.  My life has ended.  I have neither happiness, comfort, peace of mind, nor love.  All is of the past.  To you—­you, James Flockart—­I am indebted for all this!  You have held me powerless.  I was a happy girl once, but you and your dastardly friends crossed my path like an evil shadow, and I have existed in an inferno of remorse ever since.  I——­”

“Remorse!  How absurdly you talk!”

“It will not be absurd when I speak the truth and tell the world what I know.  It will be rather a serious matter for you, Mr. Flockart.”

“You threaten me, then?” he asked, his eyes flashing for a second.

“I think it is as well for us to understand one another at once,” she said frankly.

They had halted upon a small bridge close to the entrance to Apethorpe village.

“Then I’m to understand that you refuse my proffered assistance?” he asked.

“I require no assistance from my enemies,” was her defiant and dignified reply.  “I suppose Lady Heyburn is at the villa at San Remo as usual, and that it was she who sent you to me, because she recognises that you’ve both gone a little too far.  You have.  When the opportunity arises, then I shall speak, regardless of the consequences.  Therefore, Mr. Flockart, I wish you good-evening;” and she turned away.

“No, Gabrielle,” he cried, resolutely barring her path.  “You must hear me.  You don’t grasp the point of my argument.”

“With me none of your arguments are of any avail,” was her response in a bitter tone.  “I, alas! have reason to know you too well.  For you—­by your clever intrigue—­I committed a crime; but God knows I am innocent of what was intended.  Now that you have estranged me from my father and my lover, I shall confess—­confess all—­before I make an end of my life.”

He saw from her pale, drawn face that she was desperate.  He grew afraid.

“But, my dear girl, think—­of what you are saying!  You don’t mean it; you can’t mean it.  Your father has relented, and will welcome you back, if only you will consent to return.”

“I have no wish to be regarded as the prodigal daughter,” was her proud response.

“Not for Walter Murie’s sake?” asked the crafty man.  “I have seen him.  I was at the club with him last night, and we had a chat about you.  He loves you very dearly.  Ah! you do not know how he is suffering.”

She was silent, and he recognised in an instant that his words had touched the sympathetic chord in her heart.

“He is not suffering any greater grief than I am,” she said in a low, mechanical voice, her brow heavily clouded.

“Of course I can quite understand that,” he remarked sympathetically.  “Walter is a good fellow, and—­well, it is indeed sad that matters should be as they are.  He is entirely devoted to you, Gabrielle.”