She looked at him steadily.
“Must?” she repeated coldly. “And to-night? Why to-night?”
“Because,” John Bruce answered quickly, “to-morrow would be too late. I know about to-morrow morning. Hawkins told me. He was outside the door of that room when Crang was talking to you to-night.” She sank back in her seat with a little cry. Her face had gone white—but again she steadied herself.
“And—and do you think that is any reason why you should have inveigled me into this car?” she asked dully. “Do you think that anything you can say will alter—to-morrow morning?”
“Yes; I do!” said John Bruce earnestly. “But”—he smiled a little bitterly—“I am afraid, too, that it will be hopeless enough if first you will not tell me what has so suddenly come between us. Claire, what is it?”
The dark eyes lighted with a glint, half angry, half ironical.
“Is that what you brought me here for?”
“No,” he said quietly.
“Then,” she said coolly, “if you do not know, I will tell you. I read a letter that you wrote to a certain Mr. Larmon.”
It was a long minute before he spoke.