She was making an effort to answer. He stopped her.
“Listen to this. If you can’t act, I shall. My mother is in London. To-morrow she is to be here. Probably she can tell me the truth. If not, I will go to the States. There I will see your father. When I return it will be with proofs. I will bring them if I have to drag that old scoundrel with me.”
He paused. Though angry still, her story had pacified him. He felt it to be false, nonetheless she had believed it and the fact that she had, absolved her of much that she had done. However she had erred, she had at least tried to do right. He closed and opened a hand, looked at it and from it looked at her.
“But first I will see my mother. In any case I will be here to-morrow. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Why shouldn’t I come. Why not?”
Leilah did not answer. She did not believe he would come, except to cause fresh agony to them both there was no reason why he should do so. The horror which she had told him and to which incredulously he had listened was gospel to her, an evil gospel, yes, but nonetheless a true one. Besides if he did come as, in any case, he said he would, he might meet Barouffski, and affrightedly she foresaw blows, afterwards a duel—one which she was unaware was then impending.
“Why not?” Verplank repeated, fumbling her as he spoke with suspicious eyes and appearing to divine and to resent her forecast.
She caught at a straw. Usually, between four and seven, Barouffski was tabled at baccarat, gambling with her money. That straw she produced.
“Come at five.”
Verplank, appeased, nodded. “Very good, at five then.”