He staggered slightly, as if he were about to fall, and
a faint white foam came on his lips; but he recovered himself almost
instantly. It was so natural to him to repress every emotion that it was
simply old habit to do so now.
"I have answered," he said very low, each word a pang--"I cannot."
Baroni waved his hand again with the same polite, significant gesture.
"In that case, then, there is but one alternative. Will you follow me
quietly, sir, or must force be employed?"
"I will go with you."
The reply was very tranquil, but in the look that met his own as it was
given, Baroni saw that some other motive than that of any fear was its
spring; that some cause beyond the mere abhorrence of "a scene" was at
the root of the quiescence.
"It must be so," said Cecil huskily to his friend. "This man is right,
so far as he knows. He is only acting on his own convictions. We cannot
blame him. The whole is--a mystery, an error. But, as it stands, there
is no resistance."
"Resistance! By God! I would resist if I shot him dead, or shot myself.
Stay--wait--one moment! If it be an error in the sense you mean, it must
be a forgery of your name as of mine. You think that?"
"I did not say so."
The Seraph gave him a rapid, shuddering glance; for once the suspicion
crept in on him--was this guilt? Yet even now the doubt would not be
harbored by him.
"Say so--you must mean so! You deny them as yours; what can they be but
forgeries? There is no other explanation.
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