"Iris is in trouble," he pleaded, "and you can help her."
"The fever!" she cried, heedless of what he had said. "Keep back from
me--the fever!"
For the second time she tried to get out of the room. For the second
time Hugh stopped her.
"Fever or no fever," he persisted, "I have something to say to you. In
two minutes I shall have said it, and I will go."
In the fewest possible words he described the situation of Iris with
her jealous husband. Mrs. Vimpany indignantly interrupted him.
"Are you running this dreadful risk," she asked, "with nothing to say
to me that I don't know already? Her husband jealous of her? Of course
he is jealous of her! Leave me--or I will ring for the servant."
"Ring, if you like," Hugh answered; "but hear this first. My letter to
you alluded to a consultation between us, which might be necessary in
the interests of Iris. Imagine her situation if you can! The assassin
of Arthur Mountjoy is reported to be in London; and Lord Harry has
heard of it."
Mrs. Vimpany looked at him with horror in her eyes.
"Gracious God!" she cried, "the man is here--under my care. Oh, I am
not in the conspiracy to hide the wretch! I knew no more of him than
you do when I offered to nurse him.
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