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 She nodded in the affirmative, her eyes once more downcast, as though fearing to meet my gaze.

'Cannot you name them—cannot you denounce them, darling? It is your duty,' I said in a low, persuasive tone. 'Reveal the truth to me, Claude.'

'No, never!' was her plain and instant reply.

'Why not?'

'There are reasons.'

'What reasons?'

'Reasons of my own. Strong reasons.'

'And may I not know them?' I asked with some resentment.

'No, Claude—I can never reveal the truth—not even to you.' She was now quite her old self.

'But I thought we trusted each other blindly and implicitly,' I protested. 'You surely know how deeply and fondly I love you, my darling.'

'Exactly,' she exclaimed, with one of those sweet and winning smiles of hers. 'That's just my point. If you love me as you declare—and I believe you do—then you will trust me, and you will, when I assure you that I cannot tell you what has happened, refrain from further questioning me.'

Her argument was, certainly, one to which I could not very well reply. It was a curious argument, and aroused suspicion within me.

She had now grown quite calm, and I could plainly see that she had at last recalled the past, yet she did not intend to make any statement whatever regarding it.

Why? This disinclination to reveal to me the slightest fact was, in itself, most extraordinary. I then found myself reflecting upon the discovery of