“What is it that you guess?” he demanded abruptly. “Who made her suffer?”
“I think it was her husband,” I said, with a lack of discretion for which I was instantly sorry, fearing with reason that I had added a final blunder to the long list of the afternoon. “That is,” I added, “if my guess is right.”
He stopped short in the road, detaining me by the arm, the question coming like a whip-crack: sharp, loud, violent.
“Is he alive?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, beginning to move forward; “and this is foolish talk—especially on my part!”
“But I want to know,” he persisted, again detaining me.
“And I DON’T know!” I returned emphatically. “Probably I am entirely mistaken in thinking that I know anything of her whatever. I ought not to have spoken, unless I knew what I was talking about, and I’d rather not say any more until I do know.”
“Very well,” he said quickly. “Will you tell me then?”
“Yes—if you will let it go at that.”
“Thank you,” he said, and with an impulse which was but too plainly one of gratitude, offered me his hand. I took it, and my soul was disquieted within me, for it was no purpose of mine to set inquiries on foot in regard to the affairs of “Madame d’Armand.”