The blood rushed to his cheeks.
“How can you ask me such a question?” he stammered.
“But,” persisted she, “I don’t know what else you can mean, if you really saw what you say you did, and if you put upon it the construction which anybody else would put.”
“You said,” he murmured, in a hoarse whisper, “that you would explain.”
“Well,” said she, “what do you want me to say? Do you want me to assure you that I am not a thief?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you want me to say that it was not I you saw?”
He drew a long breath.
“You can’t say that,” he retorted passionately.
“Oh yes, I can, and I do,” said Rachel slowly. “Forgive me, Mr. Buckland, if I’ve seemed to take this too lightly, but the truth is that the whole affair is a desperately serious one for me. That girl has roused suspicions in more people than one, and will again, I’m afraid.”