"You have only heard Aunt Philippa's, so far?" she hazarded.
"I have heard nothing whatever about what happened at Valpré from your aunt," he answered. "But that is beside the point. Are you quite incapable of telling me the truth?"
She winced sharply. "Trevor! Why are you so cruel? I have done nothing wrong."
"Then look at me!" he said.
But she would not, for his eyes terrified her. Nor could she bring herself to speak of Valpré under their piercing scrutiny. Only close-locked in his arms could she have poured out the poor little secret that she had sacrificed so much to keep. Not the nature of the adventure itself, but the fact that she had given her love to the man who had shared it with her, held her silent. She could not spread her love before those pitiless eyes, and to disclose the one without the other had become impossible to her.
And so she remained silent, counting the seconds as she felt his forbearance ebb away.
When at last he moved and released her, she cowered almost as if she expected a blow. Yet when he spoke, though there was in his tone a subtle difference, his words came with absolute composure. She could almost have imagined that he was smiling.
"Since you refuse to be open with me," he said, "you compel me to draw my own conclusions. Now, with regard to this letter which you received a week ago from Captain Rodolphe—you have another letter from him somewhere in your possession?"
He took the missive from his pocket and opened it as if he would read it again. But the sight was too much for Chris. It tortured her beyond endurance, galvanizing her into sudden, unconsidered action. She snatched it from him and tore it passionately into fragments.
"You shall not!" she cried. "You shall not!"