"It's a long way to come for a few minutes' conversation," he began.
She answered, ignoring his remark: "I had a letter from Helen this morning."
"What!" he exclaimed in sharp fear. He went suddenly white.
"A letter," she went on, broodingly. "Would you like to see it?"
He stared at her and replied: "I would rather hear from you what it was about."
He saw her brown eyes looking up curiously into his, and he had the instant feeling that she would cry if he persisted in his torture of her. The silence of that walk from the station had unnerved her, had made her frightened of him. That was what he had intended. And she did not know yet—did not know what he knew. Poor girl—what a blow was in waiting for her! But he must not let it fall for a little while.
She bit her lip and said: "Very well. It was about you. She was unhappy about you. Dreadfully unhappy. She said she was going to leave you. She also said—that she was going to leave you—to—to me."
Her voice trembled on that final word.
"Well?"
She recovered herself to continue with more energy: "And I've come here to tell you this—that if she does leave you, I shan't have you. That's all."