“There is something dark on the lining of it,” said the curate, and looked straight into her eyes.
She let go her hold. But almost the same moment she snatched the sheath out of his hand and held it to her bosom, while her look of terror changed into one of defiance. Wingfold made no attempt to recover it. She put it in her pocket, and drew herself up.
“What do you mean?” she said, in a voice that was hard yet trembled.
She felt like one that sees the vultures gathering above him, and lifts a moveable finger in defence. Then with sudden haughtiness both of gesture and word:
“You have been acting the spy, sir!”
“No,” returned the curate quietly. “The sheath was committed to my care by one whom certain facts that had come to his knowledge—certain words he had overheard—”
He paused. She shook visibly, but still would hold what ground might yet be left her.
“Why did you not give it me before?” she asked.
“In the public street, or in your aunt’s presence?”
“You are cruel!” she panted. Her strength was going. “What do you know?”