"I bestow my pity whenever it is truly needed, Frank," she said, coldly, her face whitening with the anguish of her inward thought. "Do you think you are the only sufferer in this miserable affair?"
"I am the only one who can not enlist your sympathies. I must live without your love; I must bear a name disgraced, yet those who brought about this family disgrace, even Clifford Heath, in a felon's cell, no doubt you will aid and pity; he is a martyr perhaps, while I—"
"While you—go on, sir;" fierce scorn shining from the gray eyes; bitter sarcasm in the voice.
"While I," coming closer and fairly hissing the words, "am set aside for him, a felon, Oh! you are a proud woman, and you keep your secrets well, but you can not hide from me the fact that ever since the accursed day that brought you and Clifford Heath together, he has been the man preferred by you. If I have lost you, you have none the less lost him; listen."
Before she is aware of his purpose, he has her two wrists in a vice-like grip; and bending down, until his lips almost touch the glossy locks on her averted head, he is pouring out, in swift cutting sentences, the story of the inquest; all the damning evidence is swiftly rehearsed; nothing that can weigh against his rival, is omitted.
Feeling instinctively that he utters the truth; paralyzed by the weight of his words; she stands with head drooping more and more, with cheeks growing paler, with hands that tremble and grow cold in his clasp.
He sees her terror, a sudden thought possesses his brain; grasping her hands still tighter, he goes madly on:
"Constance Wardour, in spite of the coldness between you, you love Clifford Heath. What will you do to save him?"