“Max,” she said, “do you remember that while we were staying at the Usshers’ we composed a certain document together?”
He nodded, and then as she did not continue, he opened his pocketbook and took out the release.
She made no motion to take it; on the contrary, she leaned back and crossed her hands in her lap.
“Yes,” she said, “that’s it. Well, you may stay, if you care to burn that scrap of paper.”
It was now Max’s turn to hesitate, for the decision of freedom or captivity was in his own hands; the crisis he had so recklessly rushed to meet was now upon him.
“What is in that paper?” asked Linburne, as one who has a right to question.
Christine was perfectly good-tempered as she answered: “Well, Lee, it still belongs to Mr. Riatt; but if he decides not to burn it, I promise to tell you all about it as we drink our tea.”
“Do you promise me that, Christine?”
“Most solemnly, Lee.” She looked up at Linburne, and before Max knew what he was doing he found he had dropped the paper into the fire.
Strangely enough, though the fire was hot, the paper did not catch at once, but curled and rocked an instant in the heat, before it disappeared in flame and smoke. Not until it was a black crisp did Christine turn to Linburne, and hold out her hand.