He meditated, and began a new paragraph. “Odd!” he remarked, rather surprisingly, after a little interval. "I've been wondering, until this morning, if you were real. ‘You are the one that I have met in London. The risk I run is nothing to yours. "Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. Then he turned round and gazed thoughtfully at the particular spot in the fog where Courtlaw had disappeared. “I forbid it!” she said firmly. “I want to know who you are.
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