"You mean that I am not to undo the wrong that I have done you?" she asked in amazement.
"Not that way," he answered, with deliberate shakings of the head.
"You mean that you are to stand under the stigma which now rests upon you?" she insisted, with a gleam of the old imperious manner. "Certainly not! I have done wrong enough! It cannot be undone too quickly. I shall tell the truth to Searle. I shall gather the reporters about me and spare myself nothing. I will reveal the whole horrible plot; I will confess that Searle was duped, and that you were grossly conspired against by me!"
Again Hampstead, meeting that level glance, knew that the woman spoke in absolute sincerity. She was entirely capable of doing it. Once a course commended itself to her judgment, she had already shown that she would spare nothing to follow it.
"But you forget young Burbeck," he exclaimed. "Your exposure would mean his exposure."
"Well?"
Marien's eyes and tone both expressed her meaning, though she added incisively: "He is no reason why you should linger under this cloud."
Hampstead gazed at the woman doubtfully, speculating as to what argument would make the strongest appeal to her.
"His mother," he began gravely, "is my dearest friend. She is the most saintly woman I have ever known. One year of her life to this community is worth more than a score of years of mine—than all of mine. Let her know in private that her son is the thief, and she would grieve to death in a week. Let her know suddenly, with the force of public exposure, and it would kill her instantly, like an electric shock."
