"Richard Maynadier, I want to know, whether you believe that tale, or whether you do not."
"I do not want to believe it," he said, after a pause.
"Thank you! but that is not enough; any friend would naturally not want to believe. It is not what you want, but what you do believe."
"Will you tell me it is not true?" he asked.
"I will tell you nothing," she returned, "until you answer my question."
"I will believe whatever you say."
"Then, you will be without belief on this question."
He hesitated a bit longer. Between Miss Stirling's assertion and Judith Marbury's method of denial—for denial, he assumed it to be—it was difficult to choose. But, in his heart, he was doubting the former—her eyesight was at fault—something was at fault. It could not have been Judith—some one else, who resembled her in the moonlight. He cared, not at all, who, so long as it was not she. That Miss Stirling had deliberately lied, did not occur to him. He held woman on too high a plane—besides, the Maryland women (whom he knew) did not lie.
"For the last time, Dick," she said, the faintest touch of chilliness in her tones, "do you believe that I ever kissed Sir Edward Parkington, in the park or elsewhere?"