And Chris shrank, shrank from that dread scrutiny as she would have shrunk from naked steel. She did not attempt to speak another word.
For seconds that seemed to her agonized senses like hours, he held her so, waiting, waiting for she knew not what. Her heart thumped within her like the heart of a terrified creature fleeing for its life. She began to pant audibly through the silence. The strain was more than she could bear.
"Chris!" he said.
She started violently; every pulse leaped, every nerve jarred. But she did not lift her eyes to his; she could not.
"Don't tremble," he said, his voice very cold and even. "Just tell me the truth. Begin with what happened at Valpré."
Her white lips quivered. "What—how much—do you know?"
"I will tell you that," he said, "when you have answered me quite fully and unreservedly."
She cast an imploring look at him that did not reach his eyes. "But, Trevor, nothing happened," she told him piteously. "That is to say, nothing beyond—" She broke off short. "I was only a child. I didn't know," she ended, in a confused murmur.
"What didn't you know?" Stern and pitiless came the question. His hands were holding her wrists tightly locked. There was compulsion in their grasp.
She answered him because she could not help it, but her words were wild and incoherent. "I didn't know what it meant. I didn't see the harm of it. I was too young. It all happened before I realized. And even then—even then—I didn't understand—that it was serious—until—until— the duel. Trevor—Trevor, you are hurting me!"