"I was," Peggy answered; and if ever guilty fear was manifested in a human voice, the people in that room heard it now. It must be remembered that to people who have been upon the brink of crime or misbehaviour—even though they may have escaped it—the suspicion, when they are confronted with it, has much the same effect upon their attitude as if the thing had already been done. The nerves of the innocent have often proclaimed them guilty to the most indulgent eyes.
"I was going out," Peggy faltered.
"Wait a moment," Admaston said.
Peggy almost drooped together.
She was like an early lily of the valley suddenly withered by a sharp, cold wind—and all gardeners will tell one how sudden and complete that withering and collapse can be.
"Very well," the girl answered.
Admaston raised his right hand a little, while he was looking at her, grave and straight. Then his arm dropped to his side.
"Ellerdine tells me that you all got on the wrong train at Boulogne."
"Yes," Peggy answered. She looked anxiously, and indeed piteously, at the others, wondering what they had been saying, longing to be adequate, conscious of her own innocence, but dreadfully conscious of the appearance of her guilt.
Admaston—and nothing escaped him—saw the way her look flickered round the salon.