Sir Robert was showing her no mercy now. "The truth, madam, if you can," he said.
"The truth!" she answered. "What is the truth to you? It's not the truth you want. It's me—my very soul—that's what you want! Not to wring the truth out of me, but just so much of it as will serve your ends!"
"Mrs. Admaston," the President said compassionately, but with emphasis, "these outbursts do not assist your case."
"My case!" Peggy cried helplessly. "My lord, who will believe me in the face of this lying letter? It is a trap—a trap, I say! I have been hunted and hounded into it. I am not surprised now that innocent women in hundreds let their cases go by default rather than face the humiliation and torture of this awful place."
"Madam, I must insist upon an answer," Sir Robert said relentlessly.
"What am I to answer?" she cried again, wringing her hands with a terribly piteous gesture.
"If you ask me, Mrs. Admaston, let me advise you to answer the truth."
"The truth?"
"Yes, the truth—that this trip to Paris was all arranged between you and your lover"—his voice sank and became deeply impressive; "that at the very moment in which your husband was trying to reach you upon the telephone you were in that lover's arms?"
"It is a lie!" she said despairingly.