The deadly calm of his voice ripped away her last remnant of composure.
“The verdict of the court!” she burst out. “Damn the verdict of the court!”
“I have done—many a time!”—bitterly.
“Garth,” she came a step nearer to him and her sombre eyes blazed into his. “I will have an answer! For God's sake, don't fence with me any longer! . . . There have been misunderstandings enough, reticences enough, between us. For this once, let us be honest with each other. I pretended I didn't care—I pretended I could go on living, believing you to be what—what they have called you. And I can't! . . . I can't go on. . . . I can't bear it any longer. You must answer me! Were you guilty?”
He was white to the lips by the time she had finished, and his eyes held a look of dumb torture. Twice he essayed to answer her, but no sound came.
At last he turned away, as though the passionate question in her face—the eager, hungry longing to hear her faith confirmed—were more than he could bear.
“I cannot deny it.” The words came hoarsely, almost whispered.
Her eyes never left his face.
“I didn't ask you to deny it,” she persisted doggedly. “I asked you—were you guilty?”
Again there fell as heavy silence. Then, reluctantly, as if the admission were dragged from him, he spoke.