“You expected to receive fifteen hundred pounds yesterday?”
“I did.”
“Did you expect to receive it from Mr. A. S. Voles?”
He saw at once that she was guilty. She half rose from her chair, then she sat down again.
“What on earth do you mean?” she cried.
“You know quite well what I mean,” replied he, “you would have had fifteen hundred of Voles’ takings on those letters. You heard last night I had refused to part. He was only your agent. There’s no use in denying it. He told me all.”
Her face had turned terrible, white as death, with the rouge showing on the white.
“It is all untrue,” she stuttered. “It is all untrue.” She rose staggering. He did not want to pursue the painful business, the pursuit of a woman was not in his line. He went to the door and opened it for her.
“It is all untrue. I’ll write to you about this—untrue.”
She uttered the words as she passed out. He reckoned she knew the way to the hall door, and, shutting the door of the room, he turned to the fire place.