"Why, really I do not know," I returned, looking at her in
astonishment. "Of course it does seem queer, but the case is a
peculiar one, and, perhaps, can be solved in no strictly legal way. If
you felt so about it, why did you not say so before?"

"Don't get angry--please. I hardly think I was myself then. It was
just an impulse I could not resist to get away from the past. I was
desperate enough then for anything. I don't think I cared whether it
was right or wrong. But on the train I lay awake and thought it all
over, and--and I would have gone back then if I could. I am sorry, so
sorry, but I am thoroughly ashamed of myself--here, as I am."

"You mean, pretending to be my wife?"

"Yes; that--that is bad enough, surely. I must have been crazy to ever
consent. Even if the truth is never known I can no longer respect
myself. But--but that is not all--we are actually criminals, engaged
in a criminal plot. Because the plan was concocted by a lawyer makes
no difference. We could be arrested, imprisoned."

"I supposed you understood."

"No doubt I did, but my brain was numbed; I could not comprehend. It
was not your fault, but mine; I do not blame you. Only, must we go on?"

"We shall have to play out the game tonight, at least," I said,
startled by her earnestness. "I will talk with Coombs, and will tell
you the result tomorrow. Your nerves are all unstrung, and the affair
may appear different by daylight."