"Vance, if you've done what I think you've done, you're lower than a snake, and more poisonous and more treacherous. And I'll cut you out of my heart and my life. You know what I mean?"
It was really the first important crisis that he had ever faced. And now his heart grew small, cold. He knew, miserably, his own cowardice. And like all cowards, he fell back on bold lying to carry him through. It was a triumph that he could make his voice steady—more than steady. He could even throw the right shade of disgust into it.
"Is this another one of your tantrums, Elizabeth? By heavens, I'm growing tired of 'em. You continually throw in my face that you hold the strings of the purse. Well, tie them up as far as I'm concerned. I won't whine. I'd rather have that happen than be tyrannized over any longer."
She was much shaken. And there was a sting in this reproach that carried home to her; there was just a sufficient edge of truth to wound her. Had there been much light, she could have read his face; the dimness of the hall was saving Vance, and he knew it.
"God knows I'd like to believe that you haven't had anything to do with it. But you and I are the only two people in the world who know the secret of it—"
He pretended to guess. "It's something about Terence? Something about his father?"
Again she was disarmed. If he were guilty, it was strange that he should approach the subject so openly. And she began to doubt.
"Vance, he knows everything! Everything except the real name of Black
Jack!"
"Good heavens!"
She strained her eyes through the shadows to make out his real expression; but there seemed to be a real horror in his restrained whisper.