“There was a quarrel—yes, a terrible scene that night, and in the morning she had gone. He said she confessed.”
Norman nodded again.
“Confessed!” he said. “You mean that she did not deny! No, she would not! She’d scorn to do so. I know her!” He had almost said—“better than Trafford does.” “Gone; of course she’s gone! And you are surprised—you who know what Esmeralda is, who have lived with her like a mother! You expected her to be accused of—of this and stand it!” He laughed with fierce bitterness. “My God! what fools people can be!”
Lady Wyndover stared at him.
“And—and you deny it!” she faltered, with a gleam of hope. “I—I said that you were not guilty. But—but the evidence!”
He laughed again, then his face grew red.
“Yes; looks bad, doesn’t it?” he said, scornfully. “I—I suppose you say he saw me—kiss her.”
Lady Wyndover trembled. Was her hope going to be destroyed?
Norman took a turn up and down the room, then confronted her.
“Lady Wyndover, I am going to tell you what no one but Esmeralda knows as yet. It is true that I once asked her to be my wife—”