She looked eagerly into his
face.
"Tell me--that it isn't all true," she begged. "Tell me that your
kindness to me, at least, was real--that you did not mean it to be for
my unhappiness afterwards. Please tell me that. I think if you asked
me, if you cared to ask me, that I could forgive everything else."
"Every vice, save one," Wingrave murmured, "Nature has lavished upon
me. I am a poor liar. It is perfectly true that my object in life has
been exactly as Aynesworth has stated it. I may have been more or less
successful--Aynesworth can tell you that, too. As regards yourself--"
"Yes?" she exclaimed.
"I congratulate you upon your escape," Wingrave said. "Aynesworth is
right. Association of any sort with me is for your evil!"
She covered her face with her hands. Even his tone was different. She
felt that this man was a stranger, and a stranger to be feared.
Aynesworth came over to her side and drew her away.
"I have a cart outside," he said. "I am going to take you to Truro--"
Wingrave heard the gate close after them--he heard the rumble of the
cart in the road growing fainter and fainter. He was alone now in the
garden, and the darkness was closing around him. He staggered to his
feet. His face was back in its old set lines. He was once more at war
with the world.
REVENGE IS--BITTER
At no time during his career did Wingrave appear before the public
more prominently than during the next few months.
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