“Because,” replied Dorothy, as angry as himself, “you know as well as I do that the Malgamite scheme is not what it pretends to be. I suppose you are making a fortune and are dazzled, or else you are being deceived by Herr von Holzen, or else——”
“Or else——” echoed Roden, with a pale face. “Yes—go on.” But she bit her lip and was silent. “It is an open secret,” she went on after a pause. “Everybody knows that it is a disgrace or worse—perhaps a crime. If you have made a fortune, be content with what you have made, and clear yourself of the whole affair.”
“Not I.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am going to make more. And I am going to marry Mrs. Vansittart. It is only a question of money. It always is with women. And not one in a hundred cares how the money is made.”
Which, of course, is not true; for no woman likes to see her husband's name on a biscuit or a jam-pot.
“Of course,” went on Percy, in his anger. “I know which side you take, since you are talking of open secrets. At any rate, Von Holzen knows yours—if it is a secret—for he has hinted at it more than once. You think that it is I who have been deceived or who deceive myself. You are just as likely to be wrong. You place your whole faith in Cornish. You think that Cornish cannot do wrong.”
Dorothy turned and looked at him. Her eyes were steady, but the color left her face, as if she were afraid of what she was about to say.
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
“And without a moment's hesitation,” went on Roden, hurriedly, “you would sacrifice everything for the sake of a man you had never seen six months ago?”