"Harlot!" he repeated softly. "Tell me the name of your lover!"
That bleached her. Disdain departed from her looks and she lay there quivering under his hands; her dry lips parted, but her tongue was stiff in her mouth. The blow was so utterly and profoundly unexpected. What did he mean? What could he mean? How could he know of that secret idol in that secret grove of her heart, before whose altar she had slain her girlhood—and his honour? How could he know of that sweet shameful secret that she shared with a mad or drunken man—but mad or drunk, the man she loved? Had she not buried the secret deep and sworn that no one should ever drag it from the depths of her? Was it possible that she had not buried it deep enough? Was it written across her face for all the world to see? She searched the scorching eyes above her and then at last she was afraid; her own fell and the lids closed over them.
Vile epithets fell again and again from his lips, and under each her face blenched and shrank as though little flickering flames or drops of corrosive acid had touched it; but her eyes were sealed and her lips gave forth no word.
At last it ended strangely. Weariness seemed suddenly to overcome Abinger, for his grasp grew loose on the girl's hands, his tense features relaxed, a bluish shade stole over his face.
Presently he stumbled to his feet, and, walking unevenly and vaguely, made his way from the room.
In a moment Poppy Destin had leapt from the bed to the door and locked it soundlessly.
Sophie Cornell was saying good-night to a visitor. "Well," said he. "Tell Miss Chard how sorry I am. As soon as she feels well enough, I shall send up my carriage, and I'd like her to use it and get some fresh air."
"Och, what, she won't be well enough for that some time yet," was Miss Cornell's answer. "She is very dickie indeed. I shouldn't be surprised if she croaked."
Bramham gave her a searching look.