"I must," said Wiggins, with a heavy sigh. "It is necessary. All is at
stake. You do not know what you are doing."

"It is evident to me," said Edith, mastering herself by a strong effort,
"that you are playing a desperate game, but at the same time you are
trusting much to chance. Why did you wish me to come here? It was by the
merest chance that I decided to come. It was also by another chance
that I entered those gates which you now shut against my departure. Few
would have done it."

"Your presence seemed necessary to my plans," said Wiggins, slowly.
"What those plans are I can not yet confide to you. You are concerned in
them as much as I am. Opposition will be of no avail, and will only
injure you. But I hope you will not try to oppose me. I entreat you to
bear with me. I entreat you to try to put a little confidence in me. I
was your father's friend; and I now implore you, that daughter whom he
loved so dearly, for your father's sake--yes, and for the sake of your
sainted mother--not to--"

"This is mere hypocrisy," interrupted Edith. "My father was one with
whom one like you can have nothing in common. You add to your crimes by
this treatment of his daughter. What you have already been guilty of
toward him you alone know. If you hope for mercy hereafter, do not add
to your guilt."

"Guilt!" cried Wiggins, in an awful voice. He started back, and
regarded her with eyes of utter horror. "Guilt!" he repeated, in a voice
so low that it was scarcely above a whisper--"and she says that word!"

Edith looked at him with unchanged severity.