She all but staggered before the shock.
"Yes, in love with you. That's why he came back here."
As steadily and indifferently as she could contrive she went to the sofa, seated herself. "Why, you yourself told me he was in love with Helen."
"I was mistaken. How could he be in love with her, when you're about? A man always takes to the best-looking woman."
She laughed with friendly conciliating coquetry. "I'm afraid you're prejudiced."
"I saw it this evening. The way he was listening to those love songs!"
"Are you sure he was thinking of me?"
Richard did not answer.
"Perhaps Helen's equally sure he was thinking of her."
Under cover of the talk she—hardly knowing what she, or he, was saying—darted this way and that, seeking an escape from the horror closing in upon her. She felt like a hiding slave, hearing the distant bay of the bloodhounds. How escape? How throw him off the scent? Was there only the one way?