"No, not now. Who—? Wasn't there some one else in here? I thought—I saw some one in pink—and smelled a perfume. I must have been dreaming."
"Lie back on the pillow and rest, Camilla, dear. You're played out. The doctor will be here in a minute."
"I don't want a doctor. I'm all right." With an effort she straightened and sat on the side of the bed. "I remember—I was telling you——"
"Don't, Camilla. I don't want to hear. I believe you. It's all a mistake." He bent over her and tried to take her in his arms.
But she held up her hand and gently restrained him. "No—no," she said shaking her head. "Don't try to soothe me. That doesn't mean anything. I know. Shadows like these are not brushed away so quickly. Sit there, Jeff, by the window and listen. There's something else I must tell you—I should have told you at once. It's what I came here for, but I didn't seem to have the courage."
"No, not to-night."
"I must—it won't keep. You must listen." Her eyes pleaded, and so he sank into the rocking chair, leaning forward eagerly. She took up the handbag beside her on the table and fumbled tremblingly at the lock.
"It's something which concerns General Bent and you—no, not business, Jeff—something personal—something dreadfully personal—which has nothing whatever to do with your business relations, and yet something which seems to make your hatred of each other all the more terrible. It—it seems very hard for me to tell you, because it's something you have never liked to speak about—something that has always made you very unhappy."
"Why, what do you mean, Camilla?" he asked.
"You must let me tell you in my own way, because it will be hard for you to realize. I must show you that there is no mistake—no chance of a mistake, Jeff. Two weeks ago at the hotel in New York I was reading the letters in the old tin box and looking at the photographs. They were in the drawer of your desk. I've never spoken of them to you or looked at them since we were married—but you were not there to see them and—I—I didn't think you'd mind. I had them on your desk when Mrs. Rumsen came in. She saw the photograph of your father. She—she had one just like it in her album at home——"