As she had once said to him, she believed he was a good man. She
would always believe it. And yet was that awful doubt hammering through
her brain.
They reached the bounds of the club compound and Carlyon stopped again.
From the building behind them there floated the notes of a waltz, weird,
dream-like, sweet as the earth after rain in summer.
"I want to know," Carlyon said steadily, "if you trust me."
She stretched up her hands like a child and laid them against his
breast. She answered him with piteous entreaty in which passion
strangely mingled.
"Colonel Carlyon," she whispered brokenly, "promise me that when this is
over you will give it up! You were not made to spy and betray! You were
made an honourable, true-hearted man--God's greatest and best creation.
You were never meant to be twisted and warped to an evil use. Ah, tell
me you will give it up! How can I go away and leave you toiling in the
dungeons?"
"Hush!" said Carlyon. "You do not understand."
Later, she remembered with what tenderness he gathered her hands again
into his own, holding them reverently. At the time she realized nothing
but the monstrous pity of his wasted life.
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