Lady Wyndover was walking up and down the room like a caged tiger.
“I do not, I will not believe it!” she panted. “She is incapable of it—incapable!”
He sighed almost patiently.
“Then—where is she?” he demanded, grimly.
Lady Wyndover stopped as if she had been shot, and stared at him aghast.
“I—I—do not know!”
“Wherever she is, she must have heard of my father’s death. If she had not gone off with Norman she would have written, telegraphed—come back as fast as horses, trains, could bring her.”
Lady Wyndover sunk on the couch and clasped her head.
“I am bewildered, dazed!” she wailed. “Give me time to think! It is so—so sudden!”
“I have had time,” he said, bitterly, “and I can come to no other conclusion. And you have not heard all. I charged her with—her treachery; I had seen them together in the conservatory at Belfayre, had”—his voice grew hoarse—“seen him kiss her. I charged her with it, and—oh, my God! she confessed it, defied me! The next morning she was gone! They were gone! He went without a word!”