I have just said that my knowledge of her character is intimate; and yet it is not,—for I do not know whether or not she will choose to protect herself. It is impossible to foretell where a woman's notion of independence will begin or end. It is more than conceivable that Sinfire, out of mere wanton defiance, or waywardness, might tell in the witness-box the whole story of her previous life, which she has permitted even me only to guess at. A jury might see in that story motive enough to warrant a conviction.
Fear of that same waywardness withholds me from speaking to her on the subject. If I were to tell her that she is in danger, she would be as likely as not to go deliberately off and thrust her head into the lion's mouth. If, on the contrary, she discovers her danger herself, the instinct of self-defence and of justice may prompt her to repel it. If hers were a nature that I could control, I would put forth my power without hesitation and give her a lesson to repeat by rote; only that if I could control her I should care nothing about her and she might do what she liked.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, neither she nor I have any leisure to pass in each other's society. Her hands are full with household cares and nursing mother, and I am sufficiently employed upon other business. But in the evenings, after the work is done, I retreat to my library, and write, or play with Sâprani. I have an idea that I should like to put on gypsy attire and wander off on foot through the world, with Sâprani and Sinfire. Sâprani's performances would earn us a living, and Sinfire and I would make each other happy. It would be a truer and sweeter life than all the wealth and resources of civilization could give us, for we possess all we care for in ourselves. A few months ago I thought my highest happiness would consist in governing mankind; now I know that my only happiness is to be found in serving this mysterious girl. But shall I ever realize that happiness?
I say, yes. But I have my doubts, for all that. I have never asked her, she has never promised, and all may turn out a dream.
XV.
They have not yet found out who murdered Henry Mainwaring.
The authorities—more out of consideration for us than for any other reason—undertook to focus their suspicions first upon poor Tom. The coroner's jury had come to the conclusion that "the deceased came to his death by a bullet discharged from a pistol in the hands of a person or persons to this jury at present unknown." Now, Tom had been provided with a pistol on the night in question,—a brand-new
