Holding the letter in her hand, she glanced around the little room in utter despair.

He loved her.  His words of reassurance brought her great comfort.  But he wished to know the truth.  He suspected something.  By her own action in writing those letters she had aroused suspicion against herself.  She regretted, yet what was the use of regret?  Her own passionate words had revealed to him something which he had not suspected.  And he was coming down there, to Woodnewton, to demand the truth!  He might even then be on his way!

If he asked her point-blank, what could she reply?  She dare not tell him the truth.  There were now but two roads open—­either death by her own hand or to lie to him.

Could she tell him an untruth?  No.  She loved him, therefore she could not resort to false declarations and deceit.  Better—­far better—­would it be that she took her own life.  Better, she thought, if Mr. Hamilton had not plunged into the river after her.  If her life had ended, Walter Murie would at least have been spared the bitter knowledge of a disgraceful truth.  Her face grew pale and her mouth hardened at the thought.

She loved him with all the fierce passion of her young heart.  He was her hero, her idol.  Before her tear-dimmed eyes his dear, serious face rose, a sweet memory of what had been.  Tender remembrances of his fond kisses still lingered with her.  She recollected how around her waist his strong arm would steal, and how slowly and yet irresistibly he would draw her in his arms in silent ecstasy.

Alas! that was all past and over.  They loved each other, but she was now face to face with what she had so long dreaded—­face to face with the inevitable.  She must either confess the truth, and by so doing turn his love to hatred, or else remain silent and face the end.

She reread the letter still seated at the piano, her elbows resting inertly upon the keys.  Then she lifted her pale face again to the window, gazing out blankly upon the village street, so dull, so silent, so uninteresting.  The thought of Mr. Hamilton—­the man who held a secret of hers, and who only a few hours before had rescued her from the peril in which Felix Krail had placed her—­again recurred to her.  Was it not remarkable that he, Walter’s old friend, should come down into that neighbourhood?  There was some motive in his visit!  What could it be?  He had spoken of Hungary, a country which had always possessed for her a strange fascination.  Was it not quite likely that, being Walter’s friend, Hamilton on his return to London would relate the exciting incident of the river?  Had he seen Krail?  And, if so, did he know him?

Those two points caused her the greatest apprehension.  Suppose he had recognised Krail!  Suppose he had overheard that man’s demands, and her defiant refusal, he would surely tell Walter!

She bit her lip, and her white fingers clenched themselves in desperation.