He paused.
Kate's work had dropped in her lap, with a faint cry of dismay.
"I had reached the lower end of the avenue," continued Reginald Stanford, "and was turning, when I saw two persons—a man and a woman—enter. 'Who can they be, and what can they be about here at this hour?' I thought, and I stood still to watch. They came nearer. I saw in the starlight her woman's face. I heard in the stillness her words. She was telling the man how much she loved him, how much she should always love him, and then they were out of sight and hearing. Kate, was that woman you?"
She sat looking at him, her blue eyes dilated, her lips apart, her hands clasped, in a sort of trance of terror.
"Was it you, Kate?" repeated her lover. "Am I to believe my eyes?"
She roused herself to speak by an effort.
"Oh, Reginald!" she cried, "what have you done! Why, why did you go there?"
There was dismay in her tone, consternation in her face, but nothing else. No shame, no guilt, no confusion—nothing but that look of grief and regret.
A conviction that had possessed him all along that it was all right, somehow or other, became stronger than ever now; but his face did not show it—perhaps, unconsciously, in his secret heart he was hoping it would not be all right.
"Perhaps I was unfortunate in going there," he said, coldly; "but I assure you I had very little idea of what I was to see and hear. Having heard, and having seen, I am afraid I must insist on an explanation."