“The hairpin. Maisie’s silver hairpin. The other one,—in the bag round your neck!”
“You are mad! There’s no hairpin there!”
“Show me! Show me!”
Rainger’s face hardened. He answered, harshly enough: “No! You can take my word for it!”
“You—vile—liar!” said Charron, heavily, and came nearer.
“Will, old fellow, you’re sick, you’re not yourself . . . .”
“I’m not myself. I shall never be myself again. You and Maisie have . . . . killed me.”
“Will, for God’s sake, listen!”
“To more lies? I felt it there under the canvas; felt the prongs and the ball on the top carved with little silver roses. Maisie’s other pin. She said: ‘P’raps I’ve given that to someone else, you old silly . . . .’ Had she, Jack, had she? Or did you pick it up? I could forgive you then, for you couldn’t help loving her, could you, though I’d be sorry for Laure? Tell me if you found it or if she gave it to you. Tell me . . . . Only tell me the truth, no more lies! All these two years and nothing but lies. Jack!”
Through white lips, Rainger said: “I shall neither speak to you, nor lie to you, as you say, again.” And there was something implacable in his quietness; he was quick to pity where he loved; but doubt was to him the unpardonable sin against any love. And Will—Will!—had refused to believe him.