Jerome Caryl smiled; she sat upright with clasped hands.
“I knew it. When across the room I saw your face as the fule Berwick spoke of his plans. I saw that ye meant to betray us. Ah, they talk of their man’s sagacity but a woman can see clearer—Berwick did not see—I did.”
“Berwick knows me better, madam.”
She took no heed of the quiet words.
“Ye will tell the Prince every name ye know,” she said hoarsely. “And if ye dinna—they will discover once ye have lodged the information.”
She shuddered further into her corner; her whole face and figure seemed misty to Jerome in the wavering light; only her eyes, fixed on him, were clear and brilliant.
“Will ye do it—will ye no reflect?”
There was no doubting her controlled agitation, the distress in her accents; Jerome, who had been studying her curiously, spoke now with a deepening of curiosity; he spoke under his breath softly.
“You are not involved—” he said. “For whom are you afraid?”
Her eyes traveled slowly over him.