He was on his feet again now and some of the mildness, the constrained look, the look that didn't make him look like a man who might be capable of resorting to violence under stress, was gone from his eyes.
"She led me on, I tell you. There was something about her, something I mistook for great generosity and warmth—"
Fenton looked at him steadily for a moment, carefully weighing what he was about to say. He asked the question in a quiet tone, but he knew that it was emotionally charged, and strategically just the right question to put to the man at that particular moment.
"Were you her lover, Willard?"
Willard flushed scarlet and lowered his eyes.
"Were you?"
Willard compressed his lips and said nothing, but a look of torment had come into his eyes.
"You slept with her, didn't you, Willard?"
"Yes, damn you!" There was a look of naked agony in the frail man's eyes now, and the words came out choked with rage.
Then, quite suddenly, he was trembling violently, clenching his fists like a man deranged.