“Ah—it is hard to fasten.”
“Let me try,” said he gravely.
She looked at him in a confused manner.
“Yes; the fastening is difficult,” said Mr. Wedderburn with the sapphire in his hand—“hold up your head.”
Obviously nerving herself, Delia obeyed; he bent over her and his tie brushed her bosom; his hand touched her bare throat as he adjusted the brooch; at the sensation she gave an uncontrollable start that made the pin again fly and prick her flesh; with a little cry she stepped back.
“I have hurt you!” cried Mr. Wedderburn; and his white face slightly flushed—“Forgive me—”
“Ah, no, ’twas mine own fault,” said Delia, but if the scratch had been poisoned she could not have spoken more faintly or with paler lips.
Mr. Wedderburn looked at her keenly and she seemed to know it though her eyes were downcast, for her face was flushed as suddenly as his and she set her teeth in her under lip.
“What is your part in these plots?” he asked abruptly.
Still looking down she answered.