But Desmond had no answer to give her. He simply squared his right arm, warding off her hands.
Then she saw the hard lines of his mouth, the inexpressible pain in his eyes; and, clutching at his rigid forearm, tried to force it down. She might as well have tried to shift a bar of iron.
"What's the matter with you now?" she asked, half petulant, half fearful. "Has anything else gone wrong? Haven't we had enough misery and depression——?"
"There's no more call for acting, Evelyn," Desmond interposed with an ominous quietness more disconcerting than anger—"Doesn't your own conscience tell you what may have gone wrong?"
At that the colour left her face. "You mean—is it about—me?" she asked with shaking lips.
"Yes. About you." Her pitiful aspect softened him; he took her arm and set her gently down upon a chair;—the selfsame chair that Paul had occupied half an hour ago. "Don't be frightened," he said gently; "I won't hurt you more than I must. Ever since we married I have done my utmost to help you, spare you, shield you; but now—we've got to arrive at a clear understanding, once for all. First I want you to answer a question or two, straightly, without prevarication. You went out early, it seems. Where?"
"To Mrs Riley's——"
"And after?"
"I met Mr Kresney—quite by chance. He wanted me to come in to tea. He said Miss Kresney would soon be home—and I—I——"