She examined him closely and pity for him seemed even stronger than shame.
“It is a part of our misunderstanding,” she said coolly, “that you should think so little of me. I have told you that I shall protect you. My hands shall be clean, if my heart isn’t.”
“What will you do with the papers?” he asked.
“This,” and she turned toward him—“burn them.” She put her hand into her pocket, drew out the papers and went toward the hearth. Her hand was even extended toward the fire when, with a quick movement, he snatched the yellow packet from her fingers.
She fell away from him in dismay, as if she had been touched by something poisonous, touching her wrist and the fingers into which her rings had been driven. Then she hid her face in her hands and closed her eyes.
“Oh!” she gasped. “You’d pay my generosity—with this!”
He had examined the papers coolly and had put them into his pocket.
“I? I don’t count in a game like this—nor do you. I’m sorry. They were mine. You took them. I had to have them.”
“Then this——” she stammered, “this was what you kept me here for?”
“I had to have them,” he repeated dully. That was all. Her wrist and fingers burned where he had hurt them. A brute—a coward—as well as a traitor. She straightened proudly and with a look at his bowed head, she went by him and out of the room.