But it was done now. James gazed blankly, but angrily, puzzled into her face.
"I haven't the faintest notion what you mean," he said. Evidently he had not.
She must go on, though she hated it. "You are very surprising. I can hardly think you are serious. Let me remind you of the opera—of the Walküre."
He gave his mind to it, explored the past, and so entirely failed to understand her that he looked rather foolish. "I remember that we were there." Then he had a flash of light—and shed it on her, God knows. "I remember also that Lingen was in the box."
"Oh, Lingen! Are you mad on—? Do you not remember that you were there before Lingen?"
"Yes, I do remember it." He stood, poor fool, revealed. Lucy's voice rang clear.
"Very well. If that is all that your memory brings you, I have nothing more to say."
She left him swiftly, and went upstairs in the possession of an astounding truth, but rapt with it in such a whirlwind of wonder that she could do no more than clutch it to her bosom as she flew. She sent out word that she was not coming down to dinner, and locked herself in with her truth, to make what she could of it.