She raised her eyes to his.  Her whispered words came so softly that they were almost inaudible.

“I am waiting,” she said.  “Tell me what I can do!”

He commenced to speak at some length, very impassively, very deliberately.

“You will doubtless appreciate the fact,” he said, “that my position, today, is a somewhat peculiar one.  I have had enough of solitude.  I am rich!  I desire to mix once more on equal terms amongst my fellows.  And against that, I have the misfortune to be a convicted felon, who has spent the last ten or a dozen years amongst the scum of the earth, engaged in degrading tasks, and with no identity save a number.  The position, as you will doubtless observe, is a difficult one.”

Her eyes fell from his.  Once more she shivered, as though with physical pain.  Something that was like a smile, only that it was cold and lifeless, flitted across his lips.

“I have no desire,” he continued, “to live in foreign countries.  On the contrary, I have plans which necessitate my living in England.  The difficulties by this time are, without doubt, fully apparent to you.”

She said nothing.  Her eyes were once more watching his face.

“My looking glass,” he continued, “shows me that I am changed beyond any reasonable chance of recognition.  I do not believe that the Wingrave Seton of today would readily be recognized as the Wingrave Seton of twelve years ago.  But I propose to make assurance doubly sure.  I am leaving this country for several years, at once.  I shall go to America, and I shall return as Mr. Wingrave, millionaire—­and I propose, by the way, to make money there.  I desire, under that identity, to take my place once more amongst my fellows.  I shall bring letters of introduction—­to you.”

There was a long and somewhat ominous silence!  Lady Ruth’s eyes were fixed upon the floor.  She was thinking, and thinking rapidly, but there were no signs of it in her pale drawn face.  At last she looked up.

“There is my husband,” she said.  “He would recognize you, if no one else did.”

“You are a clever woman,” he answered.  “I leave it to you to deal with your husband as seems best to you.”

“Other people,” she faltered, “would recognize you!”

“Do me the favor,” he begged her, “to look at me carefully for several moments.  You doubtless have some imperfect recollection of what I was.  Compare it with my present appearance!  I venture to think that you will agree with me.  Recognition is barely possible.”

Again there was silence.  Lady Ruth seemed to have no words, but there was the look of a frightened child upon her face.

“I am sorry,” he continued, “that the idea does not appeal to you!  I can understand that my presence may serve to recall a period which you and your husband would doubtless prefer to forget—­”

“Stop!”

A little staccato cry of pain; a cry which seemed to spring into life from a tortured heart, broke from her lips.  Aynesworth heard it, and, at that moment, he hated his employer.  Wingrave paused for a moment politely, and then continued.