"She told me nothing, Frank. Oh, I wish she had."
He sprang up, overturning his chair in his hasty excitement.
"Nothing!" he cried "she told you nothing?"
"Absolutely nothing. The letter was an enigma. How strangely you act, Frank. I can't understand you."
Slowly the life color returned to his cheeks and lips, as he answered, or stammered:
"Pardon me, Constance. I thought—I feared—I hoped there might be some explanation. I thought she must have given you some reason for so horrible a step. Are you sure there is no hint, no clue to help us?"
"Frank, listen: Sybil's note explained nothing. It only implored me not to think harshly of her, when I should know what she had done, and bade me farewell. I could not comprehend its meaning until the news reached me that she had fled."
"And you can not guess why she did this thing?"
"No."
He turned away, putting his hand up before his face, and uttering a groan. Then he moved toward one of the French windows, pushed it open, and leaned out.