"Now then, Mrs. Westbrook," he resumed, in tones vastly altered, "I trust you have chosen the wiser course. I am asking little of you."
Her back was now turned to him, and she did not meet his regard.
"What is it you want?" she asked over one shoulder, and almost in a whisper.
"Well, first," becoming abruptly business-like and impersonal, "did you ever hear General Westbrook mention a certain Don Juan del Castillo?"
He paused, for the back turned to him betrayed a start.
"Because," he continued at once, "I believe it is through Don Juan that this mystery may be cleared." He hesitated again, curious to see her face.
Mrs. Westbrook astonished him. Quite without warning she wheeled about and took one or two rapid steps toward him. Her eyes were wide with a terror the existence of which nothing within his knowledge would account for; but it was plain that he had at last penetrated her reserve.
"What—what do you know of him?" she demanded in a hoarse, distressed whisper. "Who—who— Good God, what are you? What do you know?" As she awaited his reply her bosom rose and fell tumultuously.
"Mrs. Westbrook—calm yourself—there is no occasion for this excitement," he returned, sorely perplexed at this unexpected turn. He hesitated to press this woman whose agitation was so profound, yet incomprehensible; but she offered him an opportunity which duty sternly bade him take advantage of. "If you will be seated for a few minutes—" he added; but she again interrupted:
"Tell me—at once—what wrong has my husband done? My God! my God! Is his name to be smirched—to be dragged in the mire—now—now that he is dead?"