With a single imperative gesture, the speaker was silenced.
"Tell me, Miss Westbrook, were you alone?"
The lovely, subdued eyes flashed forth a startled look; but Joyce made no reply.
"Miss Westbrook, I will go further in offering you this opportunity: I will say that I know you were not alone. Come, now, who was with you?"
Still silence. The mention of Fairchild's name had produced no effect; it might be well to try another.
"Was it Mr. Lynden?"
The girl responded precisely as she had to the first question, the same words uttered in the same tone:
"I refuse to answer."
Another shrug of the shoulders signalized the end of Mr. Converse's forbearance. He strode hastily to the door, but turned and paused with his hand upon the handle.
Was it a stifled cry that had reached his ears? The girl was now standing with the back of her free hand pressed tightly to her lips, and in her eyes was a look of despair that smote him to the heart. Great heavens, what did she mean? Was man ever confronted by such perverseness, or beset by a more irritating perplexity! Why did she not speak?