When Mrs. Harding quitted the room her daughter said in the crisp accents of ill-temper:
“What do you want with me, now?”
“I want to ask why you dared to write a letter to Sir Charles Dyke in the name of your dead mistress.”
The answer was so direct, the tone so menacing, its assumption of absolute and unquestioned knowledge so complete, that for a moment Marie le Marchant’s assurance failed her.
She stood like one petrified, with eyes dilated and breast heaving. At last she managed to ejaculate:
“I—I—why do you ask me that question?”
“Because I must have the truth from you this time. You are playing a very dangerous game.”
That he was right he was sure now beyond doubt. It was impossible for the girl to deny it with those piercing eyes fixed on her, and seeming to read the secrets of her heart.
Yet she was plucky enough. Although she was confused and on the point of bursting into tears, she snapped viciously: