'You did it?' asked Trix in a dull voice, looking across at Peggy.
There was no way out of that. But where was the exultation of the achievement, where the glory?
'Forgive me, dear; forgive me,' Peggy murmured, almost with a sob.
'Your own money?'
'Mine!' echoed Peggy, between a sob and a laugh now.
'Whose?' Trix asked. There was no answer. She turned on Tommy. 'Whose?' she demanded again.
They would not answer. It was peine forte et dure; they were crushed, but they made no answer. Trix rose from her chair. Her manner was tragic, and no pretence went to give that impression.
'I—I'm not equal to it,' she declared. 'It drives me mad. But I have one friend still. I'll go to him. He'll find out the truth for me and tell it me. He'll make you take back your money and give me back my shares.'
Irresistibly the man of business found voice in Tommy Trent. An appeal to instinct beats everything.