It was not what she had expected. She had been prepared for tempestuous, for overwhelming, wrath. The absence of this oddly disconcerted her. Her own tornado of indignation was checked. She answered him almost involuntarily.
"Jerry Lister."
He frowned as if trying to recall the owner of the name, and again without her conscious will she explained.
"You saw him that night at the ball. They were together all the evening."
The frown passed from his face.
"That—cub!" he said slowly. "And"—his eyes were searching hers closely; he spoke with unswerving determination—"where have they gone?"
She withstood his look though she felt its compulsion.
"I refuse to tell you that."
"You know?" he questioned.
"Yes, I know."