“I mean, about Bolla's letter.”
Arthur's face contracted painfully at the name.
“I thought you wouldn't have heard of it,” Gemma went on; “but I suppose they've told you. Bolla must be perfectly mad to have imagined such a thing.”
“Such a thing——?”
“You don't know about it, then? He has written a horrible letter, saying that you have told about the steamers, and got him arrested. It's perfectly absurd, of course; everyone that knows you sees that; it's only the people who don't know you that have been upset by it. Really, that's what I came here for—to tell you that no one in our group believes a word of it.”
“Gemma! But it's—it's true!”
She shrank slowly away from him, and stood quite still, her eyes wide and dark with horror, her face as white as the kerchief at her neck. A great icy wave of silence seemed to have swept round them both, shutting them out, in a world apart, from the life and movement of the street.
“Yes,” he whispered at last; “the steamers—I spoke of that; and I said his name—oh, my God! my God! What shall I do?”
He came to himself suddenly, realizing her presence and the mortal terror in her face. Yes, of course, she must think———
“Gemma, you don't understand!” he burst out, moving nearer; but she recoiled with a sharp cry: