As the officer thus addressed moves forward, Winnie French utters a cry of anguish, and flings herself before Alan.
“You shall not!” she cries wildly. “You dare not! What has he done?”
Vernet looks straight at his prisoner, and smiles triumphantly.
“Mr. Warburton is accused of murder,” he says impressively.
“Murder!” Winnie turns and looks up into Alan’s face. “Alan, oh, Alan, it is not true?”
“I am accused of murder, Winnie, but it is not true.”
“Oh, Alan! Alan! Alan!” She flings her arms about him clinging with passionate despair, sobbing and moaning pitifully.
And Alan clasps her close and a glad light leaps into his eyes. For one moment he remembers nothing, save that, after all her assumed coldness, Winnie French loves him.
Still folding her in his arms, he half leads, half carries her to the divan where Leslie sits trembling and wringing her hands.
“Winnie, darling,” he whispers, “do you really care?”