"What shall I do, Mr. Markham? If there is some basis of truth in the reports I hear, I have been grossly imposed upon and, whatever the facts, have done a great wrong both to you and Hermia. Unfortunately, she has left New York, and I don't know where to find her. She left town, I am informed, the day after the play was given. I wish she hadn't. It makes things awkward for me. I have the best intentions in the world, but if she ties my hands by silence what can I do?"
Markham had risen and was pacing the floor slowly, his head bent, all this thoughts of Hermia. Olga's cruelty stunned him. She had promised not to speak. Had she spoken other than in this ingenious drama? Or was it—De Folligny? His fists clenched and his jaws worked forward. De Folligny—a man. Here was something tangible—a man, not a woman, to deal with. He turned and stood beside the tea table, struggling for the control of his voice.
"Who has told this story, Mrs. Hammond?" he asked at last.
She shrugged her capacious shoulders and settled her head forward in his direction.
"Frankly, I don't know. Thank God, I'm not in any was responsible for that part of this misfortune. I only know that Olga Tcherny wrote the play. As to her motives in doing so I am at a loss. But if I thought she used my house, violated my hospitality at the expense of one of my guests, to serve some private end, I would—"
The good lady grew red in the face, and then, controlling herself after a moment, "I would find some means of getting her the punishment she deserved. Hermia Challoner was there," she went on quickly. "Her appearance was remarked. She looked ill and left the house before supper. You were invited, too, Mr. Markham, if you will remember, but would not come. I confess I'm at my wit's ends. I shall not question you. All I ask is your advice."
Markham raised his head and looked her in the eyes for a full moment. She was much distressed at the position, and the friendliness of her look was all that could be desired. He hesitated a moment, weighing his duty with his inclination. What was best for Hermia? How could he serve her? How build a bulwark to dyke the flood of scandal which threatened her in her flight? A lie? Obviously that wouldn't do, for Mrs. Hammond believed in him. And the story had gone too far, was too diabolic in its accuracy, for a flat denial without explanation. The truth?
His hostess still regarded him patiently. He searched her with his eyes, his gaze finally falling.
"If one is guiltless one does not fear the truth," he muttered slowly, "nor does virtue fear a lie—but a half-truth will damn even the innocent, Mrs. Hammond."
"There is some basis then for the stories they are telling?" she asked kindly.