“There's a mistake—there must be.”
It was Demarest who gave an official touch to the tragedy of the moment.
“There's no mistake,” he said. There was authority in his statement.
“There is, I tell you!” Dick cried, horrified by this conspiracy of defamation. He turned his tortured face to his bride of a day.
“Mary,” he said huskily, “there is a mistake.”
Something in her face appalled him. He was voiceless for a few terrible instants. Then he spoke again, more beseechingly.
“Say there's a mistake.”
Mary preserved her poise. Yes—she must not forget! This was the hour of her triumph. What mattered it that the honey of it was as ashes in her mouth? She spoke with a simplicity that admitted no denial.
“It's all quite true.”
The man who had so loved her, so trusted her, was overwhelmed by the revelation. He stood trembling for a moment, tottered, almost it seemed would have fallen, but presently steadied himself and sank supinely into a chair, where he sat in impotent suffering.