“Miss Claire, I want you to tell me something.”
She looked up quickly, with anxiety in her eyes. But she said nothing.
“I want you to tell me,” he went on, assuming a tone which was almost bullying in his excitement, “why Mr. Christian came to see you the day he was married?”
To his horror she stood up, pushing back her chair, moving as if with no other object than to hide the frantic emotion she was seized with at these words. There passed over her face a look of anguish which he never forgot as she answered in a low, breathless voice.
“Hush, I cannot tell you. You must not ask. You must never ask. And you must never speak about it again, never, never!”
Bram leaned over the table, and looked straight into her eyes. In every line of her face he read the truth.
“He asked you to—to go away with him!” he growled, hardly above his breath.
“Hush!” cried she. “Hush! I don’t know how you know; I hope, oh, I pray that nobody else knows. I want to forget it! I will forget it! If I had to go through it again it would kill me!”
And, dry-eyed, she fell into a violent fit of shuddering, and sank down in her chair with her head in her hands.
“The scoundrel!” said Bram in a terrible whisper.