"Can I not?" said Hunt-Goring. "You haven't a very high opinion of my intelligence, have you? Colonel Campion—I believe you know him—is scarcely the man to sit still when such gossip as that reaches his ears. As for the proofs, I know how to find them. The worthy Mrs. Briggs was on the spot, you may remember. Her evidence would be valuable. And there are other well-known means which I needn't go into now. But I assure you the circumstances themselves, properly handled, are sufficiently suspicious. You would not care to see your friend Max on his trial for murder, I presume?"
She shivered again, shivered from head to foot. She did not utter a word.
"No, I thought not," said Hunt-Goring, after a moment. "It would be especially painful for you, as your evidence also would be required. You see the position quite clearly, don't you? Come, hadn't you better give in now—and save further trouble?"
She was silent still. Only her breath came fast—as the breath of one who nears exhaustion.
Hunt-Goring waited a little, watching her white face. "Come!" he said, "I don't want to play the villain any longer. Can't you give me something better to do? I always dance to your piping."
She spoke at last, forcing her trembling lips to utterance; after repeated effort. "Go—please!" she said.
"Go?" said Hunt-Goring.
"Yes! go!" She raised her eyes for an instant, piteously entreating, to his. "I—can't talk to you now,—can't—think even. I—will see you again—later."
"When?" he said.
Her breast was rising and falling. She could not for several seconds answer him. Then: "At the ball—on Thursday," she whispered.