"In India I respected what you told me. Because you were strong,
I loved you the more. Here in England I can no longer respect the
accomplice of assassins."
"Assassins? What, is this something new?"
"With a man's religion, however bloodthirsty it may be, I don't
quarrel so long as he sincerely believes in it. But for private
assassination I have no time and no sympathy." It was the old
Nicol Brinn who was speaking, coldly and incisively. "That--
something we both know about ever moved away from those Indian
hills was a possibility I had never considered. When it was
suddenly brought home to me that you, you, might be here in
London, I almost went mad. But the thing that made me realize it
was a horrible thing, a black, dastardly thing. See here."
He turned and crossed to where the woman was crouching, watching
him with wide-open, fearful eyes. He took both her hands and
looked grimly into her face. "For seven years I have walked
around with a silent tongue and a broken heart. All that is
finished. I am going to speak."
"Ah, no, no!" She was on her feet, her face a mask of tragedy.
"You swore to me, you swore to me!"
"No oath holds good in the face of murder."
"Is that why you bring me here? Is that what your message means?"
"My message means that because of--the thing you know about--I am
suspected of the murder."
"You? You?"
"Yes, I, I! Good God! when I realize what your presence here
means, I wish more than ever that I had succeeded in finding
death.
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