A little red spot flamed in the girl’s cheeks. “It’s not true!” she cried, “I don’t believe it—not a word. I know Jack too well. No man could have written me the letters he has—it’s a lie; a lie!” Face and figure alike were tense and rigid with emotion.
Henry Carleton’s eyes gleamed, yet when he spoke, his tone was calm. “My dear Miss Graham,” he said, “pardon me for suggesting it, but isn’t your conduct rather extraordinary. You come here, in my office hours, knowing that I am a busy man—a man of varied interests—you come here, on your private affairs, which surely have no special interest for me—and then, upon my giving you all the assistance in my power, you inform me that I lie. Really, Miss Graham—”
The girl rose quickly, yet her expression seemed to show little of contrition. “I beg your pardon, if I was rude,” she said, “you are quite right to remind me that I am taking up your time. I will go at once.”
She did not give him her hand in parting, nor did he stir from where he stood, as she walked toward the door of the office. Before she reached it, he spoke again. “If you care,” he said smoothly, “to hear the rest—”
She turned upon him. “I do not,” she said, “I care to hear nothing more. And you say, upon your honor, that what you’ve told me is true?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “You’re very hard to convince,” he said. “I don’t blame you. It’s not a pleasant thing to hear. But it is true. He’s not away on business. He goes there constantly. In fact, if you care to see him, I dare say you would find him there now.”
The words struck home. For an instant the girl stood gazing at him, as if she would have spoken; then quickly turned, and left the room.
A chance shaft sometimes cleaves to the very center of the mark. At the hour and minute when Marjory Graham was leaving Henry Carleton’s office, Jack Carleton sat with Jeanne Satterlee in the parlor of the little cottage at Eversley. His face was pale and drawn, and he was talking tensely, earnestly, evidently striving, with all the power within him, to convince and persuade with his words. The woman sat with her eyes averted, as if she listened half against her will. Three years of life had wrought their change. She was beautiful—beyond all question—more beautiful than ever; and yet a nameless something had crept into her face—hardly to be detected, even—a certain look of restlessness—of discontent—a vague change for the worse.
“And so, Jeanne,” Carleton concluded, “that’s all I ask. I say nothing about that panic in the stock market—I say nothing about the property. You know, and I know, what he did, and how he did it; I got it all out of that sneak, Cummings; but all that’s past and done with now. Even if I wanted to make the scandal, I’m not sure that he’s answerable legally; he’s a wonderfully clever man. And I say nothing about poor Vaughan, and his book. You know, and I know, how he worked that with Cummings, but once more, that’s done with now. And Vaughan’s come into his own, at last. But about the other thing, that’s different, Jeanne. You must speak. You can’t say that you won’t, where it’s life and death. You must do it, Jeanne; I’ve a right to make my fight; you must.”