This state of things could not last.  A shade of fear or mistrust came in her manner to me.  I must repeat, even at the risk of being wearisome, that I think no man was ever in such a painful position.  Had it not been for my fore-knowledge, I should have loved Mrs. Fleming for her beauty, her goodness and her devotion to my dear old friend.  I could not bear to tell him the truth, nor could I bear that he should be so basely and terribly deceived—­that he should be living with and loving one whom I knew to be a murderess.  So I waited for an opportunity of appealing to herself, and it came sooner than I had expected.

One afternoon Lance had to leave us on business; he said he might be absent some few hours—­he was going to Vale Royal.  He asked me if I would take Mrs. Fleming out; she had complained of headache, and he thought a walk down by the river might be good for her.  I promised to do so, and then I knew the time for speaking to her had come.

I cannot tell how it was that our walk was delayed until the gloaming, and then we went at once to the river, for no other reason that I can see, except that Lance had wished us to go there.

But to my dying day I can never forget the scene.  The sky was roseate with crimson clouds, and golden with gold; the river ran swiftly, brimming full to the banks; the glow of the sunlight lay on the hills around, on the green fields, on the distant woods, on the bank where we stood, on the tall, noble trees, on the wild flowers and blossoms.  Better almost than anything else I remember a great patch of scarlet poppies that grew in the long green grass; even now, although this took place a long time ago, the sight of crimson poppy makes my heart ache.  The withered trunk of a fallen tree lay across the river’s bank; one end of it was washed by the stream.  Mrs. Fleming sat down upon it and the scarlet poppies were at her feet.

“We can see nothing so pretty as the sunset over the river, Mr. Ford,” she said; “let us watch it.”

We sat for some few minutes in silence; the rosy glow from the sky and the river seemed to fall on her face as she turned it to the water.

The time had come; I knew that, yet only Heaven knows how I shrank from the task!  I would rather have died, yet my sense of justice urged me on.  Was it fair that Lance Fleming should lavish the whole love of his life on a murderess?

“What are you thinking so intently about, Mr. Ford?” she asked me.

“Shall I tell you?” I asked.

“Yes, by all means,” she replied.  “I am sure the subject is very grave, you look so unhappy.”

Now the time was come!  That beautiful face would never look into mine again.  I steeled my heart by thinking of the tiny baby face I had seen on the wooden bench of the pier—­so like hers—­the little drowned face!

“I will tell you of what I am thinking, Mrs. Fleming,” I said; “but I must tell it to you as a story.”