He spoke with indomitable resolution, but there must have been some yielding quality in the last words, for she suddenly found strength to lift her head again and turn her face up to his.
"Max," she said imploringly, "I believe I have wronged you, and I do beg you to forgive me.—But, Max, there is one thing that—for my peace of mind—you must tell me. Please, Max, please!"
She set her clasped hands against him, beseeching him with her whole soul. He looked down into her eyes, and his own were no longer stern but quite impenetrable. He spoke no word.
"I have always known," she said, faltering a little under his look, "always felt that there was something—something strange about—Violet's sudden death. Max, tell me—tell me—she didn't—make away with herself?"
She uttered the question with a shrinking dread that seemed to run shuddering through her whole body. And because he did not instantly reply, her face whitened with a sick suspense.
"Oh, she didn't!" she gasped imploringly. "Say she didn't! I—I think it would break my heart if—if—if—that—had happened."
"You must remember that she was not responsible for her actions," Max said.
Olga was trembling all over. "Then she did?"
He avoided the question. "Her life was over," he said, "in any case."
"Then she did?" Again sharply she put the question, as though goaded thereto by an intolerable pain. "Max," she said, "oh, Max, I could bear anything better than that! I don't believe it of her! I can't believe it!"