She screamed. I lifted myself on my elbow to leap down. It was impossible to stay there longer. My robe caught on a nail. While I struggled to free myself the duke saw me, and as I alighted he struck me a violent blow.
He flung himself upon me and pinioned my arms. I struggled furiously, but he had me at a disadvantage. I was down. The moonlight fell on my face. He recognized me.
“Bah, it is our American friend; it is your Mr. Hume,” he cried, with a contempt that was too careless for indignation. There was almost a note of good-nature in his contempt, as if I were a loathsome but amusing species of reptile.
I rose panting to my feet. Hell itself can have no greater torment than I suffered then.
“Eavesdropper!” cried the duke, regarding me cynically.
Jacqueline looked at me in horror. “You were listening? And you made no effort to help me?”
The words were not spoken in reproach. It was as if she had uttered a simple truth that was convincing, hopelessly convincing.
I was silent. I could say nothing without betraying St. Hilary.
“Is every one low and despicable? Is there no honor in any one? You–my aunt–” she groped her way toward the stairs.
For the third time the duke and I looked into each others eyes. He was smiling still in his amused, cynical way, but thoughtfully, too.