"Jim," she said suddenly, her sharp little chin raised, her cold, clear eyes searching his, "before we go any further I must ask you a question: This girl, this Donelle Morey, what is she to you? What are you to her?"
"What right have you to ask that?" Norval grew rigid. "How did you manage to get here? How did you know I was here, anyway, Katherine?"
"You sent a letter once with the postmark on it. Then I remembered! For awhile, I did not care. Then things became different. Jim, I must know, I have a right to know, has this girl any claim upon you? I could make nothing of her, I——"
"Good God! Have you seen her?" Norval sprang a step forward. "Have you talked to her?"
"Why do you glare at me so, Jim? Of course I have seen her, talked to her. I came last night. I am staying at a house down the road. I heard that a painter by the name of Alton lived with Mam'selle Jo Morey, made pictures in a cabin in the woods; I put things together. I went to Mam'selle Morey's, found the house empty. I came here and found the—the young girl quite at home, apparently waiting for you."
The cold voice was calm and deadly distinct, the eyes were indignant—but just.
"And then you talked!" There was a sneer in Norval's voice. "I suppose you felt it your duty to talk? What did you talk about, Katherine?"
Norval was in a dangerous mood, but his wife had never been afraid of him and she knew no fear now. Besides, she had the whip hand. He knew it; she knew it!
"I told her your name, for one thing. I do not question your conscience, Jim. I leave that to you."
"Thank you, and what next did you tell her?"