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becoming paler still as the
full weight of her meaning broke gradually upon him.
    "I followed you into town," she whispered, coming closer, and
breathing the words into his ear. "But what I saw you do there
will not prevent me from obeying you if you say: 'Follow me
wherever I go, Amabel; henceforth our lives are one.'"
    "My God!"
    It was all he said, but it seemed to create a gulf between them.
In the silence that followed, the evil spirit latent beneath her
beauty began to make itself evident even in the smile which no
longer called into view the dimples which belong to guileless
mirth, while upon his face, after the first paralysing effect of
her words had passed, there appeared an expression of manly
resistance that betrayed a virtue which as yet had never appeared
in his selfish and altogether reckless life.
    That this was more than a passing impulse he presently made
evident by lifting his hand and pushing her slowly back.
    "I do not know what you saw me do," said he; "but whatever it was,
it can make no difference in our relations."
    Her whisper, which had been but a breath before, became scarcely
audible.
    "I did not pause at the gate you entered," said she. "I went in
after you."
    A gasp of irresistible feeling escaped him, but he did not take
his eyes from her face.
    "It was a long time before you came out," she went on, "but
previous to that time the shade of a certain window was thrust
aside, and—"
    "Hush!" he commanded, in uncontrollable passion, pressing his hand
with impulsive energy against her mouth. "Not another word of
that, or I shall forget you are a woman or that I have ever loved
you."
    Her eyes, which were all she had remaining to plead with, took on
a peculiar look of quiet satisfaction, and power. Seeing it, he
let his hand fall and for the first time began to regard her with
anything but a lover's eyes.
    "I was the only person in sight at that time," she continued. "You
have nothing to fear from the world at large."
    "Fear?"
    The word made its own echo; she had no need to emphasise it even
by a smile. But she watched him as it sunk into his consciousness
with an intentness it took all his strength to sustain. Suddenly
her bearing and expression changed. The few remains of sweetness
in her face vanished, and even the allurement which often lasts
when the sweetness is gone, disappeared in the energy which now
took possession of her whole threatening and inflexible
personality.
    "Marry me," she cried, "or I will proclaim you to be the murderer
of Agatha Webb."
    She had seen the death of love in his eyes.

VIII - "A Devil that Understands Men"
*
    Frederick Sutherland was a man of finer mental balance than he
himself, perhaps, had ever realised. After the first few moments
of stupefaction following the astounding alternative which had
been given him, he broke out with the last sentence she probably
expected to hear:
    "What do you hope from a marriage with me, that to attain your
wishes you thus sacrifice every womanly instinct?"
    She met him on his own ground.
    "What do I hope?" She actually glowed with the force of her secret
desire. "Can you ask a poor girl like me, born in a tenement
house, but with tastes and ambitions such as are usually only
given to those who can gratify them? I want to be the rich Mr.
Sutherland's daughter; acknowledged or unacknowledged, the wife of
one who can enter any house in Boston as an equal. With a position
like that I can rise to anything. I feel that I have the natural
power and aptitude. I have felt it since I was a small child."
    "And for that—" he began.
    "And for that," she broke in, "I am quite willing to overlook a
blot on your record. Confident that you will never repeat the risk
of last night, I am ready to share the burden of your secret
through life. If you treat me well, I am sure I can make that
burden light for you."
    With a quick flush and an increase of self-assertion, probably not
anticipated by her, he faced the daring girl with a