"And turned pirate, and held up trains, and robbed the Bank of
England," I added, falling into her humour and laughing as she rose to
her full height; and again her mood changed, dominating me with
imperious air, her voice icily cold in manner, grave and repellent.

"Why not? I am a thief; you believe me to be a common thief."




CHAPTER IV.


I was too much taken aback to do better than stammer out helplessly,
hopelessly, almost unintelligibly, a few words striving to remind her
of her own admission. Nothing, indeed, could take the sting out of
this, and yet it was all but impossible to accuse her, to blame her
even for what she had done.

She read that in my eyes, in my abashed face, my hands held out
deprecating her wrath, and her next words had a note of conciliation
in them.

"There are degrees of wrong-doing, shades of guilt," she said.
"Crimes, offences, misdeeds, call them as you please, are not
absolutely unpardonable; in some respects they are excusable, if not
justifiable. Do you believe that?"

"I should like to do so in your case," I replied gently. "You know I
am still quite in the dark."