He threw himself in his chair, and leaned his head heavily upon his hands. Marks of painful reflection passed over his face. She looked eagerly but doubtfully into his speaking countenance.
“Tell me, John,” she said, “where did you get the silk? Who gave it to you, or how did you obtain it?”
He remained silent a minute longer before answering her question.
“I cannot, Jennie,” he replied. “It is a secret which I cannot reveal.”
She passed over to him and took his hand in hers, looking eagerly into his downcast eyes.
“Not even to me, John?” she asked.
“Not even to you, Jennie,” he replied.
She took her seat again, a look of deep distress upon her face. Was this love? This the confidence with which love should be crowned?
“My secrets are yours,” he said, catching at the meaning of her action. “This is not my secret, and I am not at liberty to reveal it.”
“And am I to understand, John Elkton,” she broke out, “that you are the recipient of a disgraceful secret? That you are concerned with criminals? That you have made me a receiver of stolen goods? I repelled the insinuation with scorn when made by another. I did not expect to have it confirmed by yourself.”