“N—no, I wasn’t.”
“You were! It’s been proved. You went over from this house, across the snow field, and you went in the study and you sat on the plush chair, near the desk. Didn’t you?”
The great dark eyes seemed unable to tear themselves from Cray’s face, and again the half-breathed whisper was, “yes.”
“I protest!” said Trask. “That girl shall not be tortured. Whether she’s guilty or not, she’s entitled to fairer treatment. You can’t make her say those things that may be used against her! Quit it, Cray. I forbid it.”
“That’s right, Cray,” Lockwood said, quietly. “You’ve no right to bait Miss Austin—you make her admit things through sheer fright.”
And it was true. Miss Mystery was trembling, and her face was white, save for the delicate flush on her cheeks and lips that she had placed there herself.
Her great eyes, beneath their heavy dark brows flew from one face to another, and she did not fail to notice the fact that every man in the room, Cray perhaps excepted, was in sympathy with her, while every woman was against her.
This must have comforted her, for she looked about, a faint smile dawning in her eyes.
“Is that true?” she said, “may I be excused from this questioning until I can get counsel? I don’t know what to say—myself—”
Her pretty distress and helplessness again appealed to the masculine sympathy, and, realizing this, she ignored the other sex.