“It was only because I didn’t feel I could bear the thought of your coming to such a place that I wrote as I did,” he answered in a low voice. “But, oh, how glad I am to see you now.” Sinking his voice yet further, he whispered, “My darling, darling love.”
She felt as if the sobs she must repress would strangle her utterance. But at last she managed to say: “I have come to ask you to tell me something——” She stopped, not knowing how to word her stupid, her unnecessary, her insulting question.
“Yes,” he said eagerly. “Ask me anything in the world, Jean.” And then, as she at last looked up, and he saw the lines that pain and acute suspense had written on her face, he gave a low groan.
“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed, “I can’t bear your looking like this, Jean. Mrs. Maclean told me you were quite well.”
She said quietly: “I am quite well. But I lay awake last night thinking of to-day. I’m so afraid”—she waited, then began again—“I’m so dreadfully afraid that you’ll be angry—that you won’t understand. But the question I’ve come to ask you is supposed to be so important. And yet? Oh, Harry——”
He broke in: “What is it? Come, Jean, you’ve nothing to be afraid of! You could never make me angry—surely you know that? Whatever you ask me I’ll answer truthfully.”
“The other side have a witness,” she murmured in a low strained voice, “who will swear that she saw you at night in the wood which joins part of your garden, with a young woman.”
Instead of the quick, contemptuous denial she had felt so absolutely certain would come, Harry Garlett remained silent for what seemed a long time.
Then he asked: “Who is the witness?”
“Lucy Warren.”