He advanced toward her. The door of the inner room, that for weeks, until a few days ago, had been occupied by John Bruce, was just behind her, and she retreated through it. He followed her. She did not want to cry out—the sound would reach the sick room above; and, besides, she dared not show the man that she had any fear.
“Don't follow me like that!” she breathed fiercely.
“Why not?” he retorted, as he switched on the light and closed the door. “I've got the right to, even if I hadn't something that I came over here particularly to-night to tell you about—quite privately.”
She had put the table between them. That he made no effort to come nearer for the moment afforded her a certain relief, but there was something in the smile with which he surveyed her now, a cynical, gloating triumph, that chilled her.
“Well, what is it?” she demanded.
“I trapped that damned lover of yours to-night!” he announced coolly.
Claire felt her face go white. It was true, then! She fought madly with herself for self-possession.
“If you mean Mr. Bruce,” she said deliberately, “I was just going to try to warn him over the phone; though, even then, I was afraid I was too late.”
“Ah!” he exclaimed sharply. “You knew, then?”
Claire shrugged her shoulders.