“You are a Williamite spy,” she said steadily.
Mr. Wedderburn pushed his chair back and his mouth took on the scornful curve that came there very easily.
“Prove it,” he answered quietly.
“I cannot prove it—but I know,” said Celia Hunt. “You are that damned thing—a spy. You dare not lie deep enough to deny it.”
He rose up softly; he was outside the circle of the lamplight, but her straining eyes saw his face was drawn.
“I dare do anything,” he said, “but I do not choose to answer.”
“There is no need,” she said, very erect and taut, “I know.”
They faced each other, the table and half the room between them; he touched his breast lightly; a square-cut diamond ring glistened through the lace that fell over his hand.
“I carry a something here,” he said with a light haughtiness, “that will serve my turn against anything you may say.”
“How did you get them?” she asked. “The papers—how much do you know?”