"Really?" His slow smile of unbelief caused her to writhe inwardly. "Do you think the unsupported statement of a woman suspected of murder will find credence?" Kathleen clenched John Hargraves' letter until her knuckles shone white under the taut skin. "Secondly," he continued in the same quiet tone, "you speak tonight only of this winter. Have you forgotten our relationship in Germany?"
"That is hardly the term for it," she said proudly. "I met you at the house of a German schoolmate …"
"And our friendship rapidly ripened into love," he said softly, never removing his gaze from her bloodless face. "Our walks in the meadows about Berlin, our elopement …"
"But not our marriage," she burst in. "John Hargraves can testify that I left you."
"John Hargraves is dead."
"True," she could hardly articulate. "But we were not married."
"Quite so; that is my point—I did not marry you."
Kathleen swayed upon her feet and threw out her hand blindly for support. "You cur! you despicable cur!" she gasped. "Don't touch me." But though she shrank from him, his strong hand steadied her toward the hall door.
"Washington society is surfeited with scandal," he said. "When more composed think of your father's latest invention."
If she heard him she gave no sign. Mental torture had exhausted her emotion. She never raised her head as he guided her to the staircase; her eyes stared only at his open right hand.