“My poor darling!” he whispered, bending down to kiss her. “But tell me—were you taken ill at the theatre? Why, what does it mean?”
“I could bear it no longer, father,” said Myra slowly. “I have been to see Malcolm Stratton.”
“What?”
“To ask him to explain.”
“You—you have been to see that scoundrel—that—”
“Hush, dear! He was to have been my husband.”
“And you—you actually went to see him—at his rooms?”
“Yes.”
Sir Mark wiped his forehead, and looked fiercely from one to the other, as if hardly believing his child’s avowal to be true.
“I could not go on like this. It was killing me, dear.”