His attitude stung her. She became white once more. She put up her hand to her throat. She was making a great effort to calm herself. Still it was some moments before she was able to say:
“Very well, very well. Do not come any nearer to me. You came to talk business. Continue. You were about to tell me that you mean to go to London to-morrow in order to get the document that will enable you to marry some one without delay. The name of Claude Westwood will appear at one part of that document. What name is to appear beside yours?”
“Why do you ask that?” he said, removing his hand from the handle of the door.
“In order to prevent any mistake,” said she. “You have probably sent forward to the proper authorities the name of Clare Tristram.”
He was grave. He shook his head sadly, and put his hand upon the lock of the door once again. He somehow suggested that he expected her to tell him that it was not the name of Clare Tristram but of Agnes Mowbray which should by right be or the special licence, beside his name.
She took a step toward him, as if she were about to speak angrily; but she checked herself.
“There is no such person as Clare Tristram,” she said.
He gave a single glance toward her. Then he sighed and shook his head gently as before. He turned the handle of the door.
“Don't open that door, for God's sake! She is the daughter of Carton Standish, who killed your brother.”
He did not give a start nor did he utter a cry as she whispered those words. He only turned and looked at her. He looked at her for a long time—several seconds. The silence was awful. The clock on the bracket chimed the second quarter.