"Do you remember that night in Philadelphia?" Kathleen asked.
"Yes, I remember."
"You were wearing my diamonds—the ones that were stolen from me that night when I was left for dead on the ground at Lincoln Station. You told me—told me," her voice faltering, "that Ralph Chainey gave you the jewels. Oh, God! I think if I had quite believed that horrible story, I should have died! But there was always the merciful doubt—the hope that it might not be true—that saved me from madness!"
She paused, but the prisoner did not speak—only smiled derisively.
"So I have come to you for the truth," went on the girl. "Oh, for God's sake, speak and tell me you lied! It was not Ralph; it could not be. Perhaps you are shielding the guilty man behind his identity. Are you? Tell me the truth! I will not ask you to betray the criminal. I do not wish to punish him. Only tell me it was not Ralph!" and she waited in wild suspense for the answer.
Fedora's evilly handsome face had on it a smile of triumph. She was gloating over the young girl's misery.
"So you love my husband?" she exclaimed, tauntingly, and the deep color rose up over Kathleen's face at the cruel sneer. She trembled with emotion, although she tried to appear indifferent as she answered:
"I did not come here to discuss that with you, madame."
Fedora was regarding her with a fixed gaze. A cunning thought had entered her mind.