"I can't answer that question," he replied quietly.
Diana flung out her hand with a sudden, passionate gesture.
"You've answered it, I think," she said scornfully.
He took a quick stride towards her, catching her by the arms.
"Diana"—his voice vibrated—"won't you trust me?"
"Trust you! How can I?" she broke out wildly. "If trusting you means standing by whilst Adrienne— Oh, I can't bear it. You're asking too much of me, Max. I didn't know . . . when you asked me to trust you . . . that it meant—this! . . . And there's something else, too. Who are you? What is your real name? I don't even know"—bitterly—"whom I've married!"
He released her suddenly, almost as though she had struck him.
"Who has been talking to you?" he demanded, thickly.
"Then it's true?"
Diana's hands fell to her sides and every drop of colour drained away from her face. The question had been lying dormant in her mind ever since the day when Olga Lermontof had first implanted it there. Now it had sprung from her lips, dragged forth by the emotion of the moment. And he couldn't answer it!