If Sinners Entice Thee

“Why should you say this?” he asked, reproachfully. “Loving each other as fondly as we do, we must meet. No power on earth can prevent it.”

They looked fondly into each other’s eyes. Liane saw in his intense passion and earnestness, and knew how well he loved her. Plunged in thought, she traced a semicircle in the dust with the ferrule of her sunshade.

“No,” she said at length, quite calmly. “You must forget, George. I shall leave here to marry and live away in the old château in Luxembourg as one buried. When I am wedded, my only prayer will be that we may never again meet.”

“Why?” he cried, dismayed.

“Because when I see you I always live the past over again. All those bright, happy, joyous days come back to me, together with the tragic circumstances of poor Nelly’s death – the dark shadow which fell between us, the shadow which has lengthened and deepened until it has now formed a barrier insurmountable.”

“What does Nelly’s death concern us?” he asked. “It was tragic and mysterious, certainly; nevertheless, it surely does not prevent our marriage.”

For an instant she glanced sharply at him, then lowering her gaze, answered drily, —

“Of course not.”

“Then why refer to it?”

“Because the mystery has never been solved,” she said, in a tone which surprised him.

“Where the police have failed we can scarcely hope to be successful,” he observed. Yet the harsh, strained voice in which she had spoken puzzled him. More than once it had occurred to him that Liane had never satisfactorily explained where she had been on that well-remembered evening, yet, loving her so well, he had always dismissed any suspicion as wild and utterly unfounded. Nevertheless, her statements to several persons regarding her actions on that evening had varied considerably, and he could not conceal the truth from himself that for a reason unaccountable she had successfully hidden some matter which might be of greatest importance.

“Do you think the truth will ever come out?” she inquired, her eyes still downcast.

“It may,” he answered, watching her narrowly. “The unexpected often happens.”

“Of course,” she agreed, with a faint smile. “But the police have obtained no further clue, have they?” she asked in eagerness.

“Not that I’m aware of,” he answered briefly, and a silence fell between them. “Liane,” he said at last, turning towards her with a calm, serious look, “I somehow cannot help doubting that you are acting altogether straightforward towards me.”

“Straightforward?” she echoed, glancing at him with a look half of suspicion, half of surprise. “I don’t understand you.”

“I mean that you refuse to tell me the reason you are bound to marry this man you hate,” he blurted forth. “You are concealing the truth.”

“Only because I am forced to do so,” she answered mechanically. “Ah, you do not know all, George, or you would not upbraid me,” she added brokenly.

“Why not tell me? Then I might assist you.”

“No, alas! you cannot assist me,” she answered, in a forlorn, hopeless voice, with head bent and her gaze fixed blankly upon the ground. “If you wish to be merciful towards me, leave here. Return to London and forget everything. While you remain, my terrible secret oppresses me with greater weight, because I know that I have lost for ever all love and hope – that the judgment of Heaven has fallen upon me.”

“Why, dearest?” he cried. “How is it you speak so strangely?” Then in an instant remembering her curious words when they had met at Monte Carlo, he added, “Anyone would believe that you had committed some fearful crime.”

She started, staring at him with lips compressed, but uttering no response. Her face was that of one upon whose conscience was some guilty secret.

“Come,” he said presently, in a kind, persuasive tone. “Tell me why poor Nelly’s death is a barrier to our happiness.”

“No,” she answered, “I cannot. Have I not already told you that my secret is inviolable?”

“You refuse?”

She nodded, her breast heaving and falling.

“Every detail of that terrible affair is still as vivid in my recollection as if it occurred but yesterday,” he said. “Until quite recently I have always believed that the assassin stole the brooch she was wearing; but I am now confident that it was stolen between the time I discovered the body and returned with assistance from the village.”

She held her breath, but only for a single instant.

“What causes you to think this?” she inquired. “Because I distinctly remember that the brooch was still at her throat when I found her lying in the road. Yet when I returned it was missing. The assassin was not the thief.”

“That has been my theory all along,” she said.

He noticed the effect his words produced upon her, and was puzzled.

“You have never explained to me, Liane, the reason you did not keep your appointment with me on that evening,” he said gravely. “If you had been at the spot we had arranged, Nelly’s life would most probably have been saved.”

“I was prevented from meeting you,” she answered vaguely, after a second’s hesitation.

“You have already told me that. What prevented you?”

“A curious combination of circumstances.”

“What were they?”

“I started out to meet you, but was prevented from so doing.”

“By whom?”

“By a friend.”

“Or was it an enemy?” he suggested. Her statement did not coincide with the fact that she had written to him postponing their meeting.

“I do not know,” she replied. “When we parted it was long past the hour we had arranged, so I returned home.”

“Nelly must at that moment have been lying dead,” he observed. “Have you any idea what took her to that spot of all others?”

“None whatever,” Liane replied. “Except that, unaware of our appointment, she met someone there.”

“You think she met there the person who afterwards shot her?”

“That is my belief.”

“Then if you know nothing further regarding the mysterious affair why should it prevent our marriage?” he asked, regarding her intently.

“It is not only that,” she replied quickly, “but there is a further reason.”

“What is it? Surely I may know,” he urged. “You will not send me away in doubt and ignorance, when you know I love you so well.”

“I cannot tell you,” she answered, panting.

“Then I shall not leave you, and allow you to become this man’s wife – nay, his victim,” he exclaimed passionately. “You do not love him, Liane. You can never love him. Although once a cheat and adventurer he may now have wealth and position, nevertheless he is no fitting husband for you, even though he may give you a fine château, a town house in Brussels, and a villa here, on the Riviera. Wealth will never bring you happiness.”