“Nor have I,” she declared quickly.

“But if I went there you would certainly accompany me,” he said, looking straight at her.

“What!” she gasped in quick dismay.  “You would tell the truth and—­and denounce me?”

“I would not; but no doubt there are others who would,” was his answer.

For a few moments her arched brows were knit, and she remained silent.  Her reflections were uneasy ones.  She and the man at her side, who for years had been her confidant and friend, were both in imminent peril of exposure.  Their relations had always been purely platonic; therefore she was not afraid of any allegation against her honour.  What her enemies had said were lies—­all of them.  Her fear lay in quite a different direction.

Her poor, blind, helpless husband was in ignorance of that terrible chapter of her own life—­a chapter which she had believed to be closed for ever, and yet which was, by means of a chain of unexpected circumstances, in imminent danger of being reopened.

“Well,” she inquired at last in a blank voice, “and who are those others who, you believe, would be prepared to denounce me?”

“Certain persons who envy you your position, and who, perhaps, think that you do not treat poor old Sir Henry quite properly.”

“But I do treat him properly!” she declared vehemently.  “If he prefers the society of that chit of a girl of his to mine, how can I possibly help it?  Besides, people surely must know that, to me, the society of a blind old man is not exactly conducive to gaiety.  I would only like to put those women who malign me into my place for a single year.  Perhaps they would become even more reckless of the convenances than I am!”

“My dear Winnie,” he said, “what’s the use of discussing such an old and threadbare theme?  Things are not always what they seem, as the man with a squint said when he thought he saw two sovereigns where there was but one.  The point before us is the girl’s future.”

“It lies in your hands,” was her sharp reply.

“No; in yours.  I have promised to look after Walter Murie.”

“But how can I act?” she asked.  “The little hussy cares nothing for me—­only sees me at table, and spends the whole of her day with her father.”

“Act as I suggested last week,” was his rejoinder.  “If you did that the old man would turn her out of the place, and the rest would be easy enough.”

“But——­”

“Ah!” he laughed derisively, “I see you’ve some sympathy with the girl after all.  Very well, take the consequences.  It is she who will be your deadliest enemy, remember; she who, if the disaster falls, will give evidence against you.  Therefore, you’d best act now, ere it’s too late.  Unless, of course, you are in fear of her.”

“I don’t fear her!” cried the woman, her eyes flashing defiance.  “Why do you taunt me like this?  You haven’t told me yet what took place on the night of the ball.”