“Not in thought!” burst in Cynthia.
“Perhaps not,”—steadily,—“but in deed. I spoke in anger. Your uncle had insulted me grossly when I met him just before going to Mrs. Owen’s dance, and in my indignation I uttered a wish which would have been better left unsaid. But listen to reason, dear; to think evil is not a crime.”
Cynthia threw back her head and gazed at him wildly. “Oh, I would so gladly, gladly believe you innocent!” She placed her small, trembling hands on his breast. “It hurts horribly—because I love you so.”
Lane caught her in a close embrace. “My darling—my dear, dear one——” His voice choked.
Cynthia lay passive in his arms. Suddenly she raised her white face and kissed him passionately, then thrust him from her. “Oh, God! why did you take that sharp letter file with you?”
“I didn’t!” The words were positive, but his looks belied them.
“She says you did—she declares that when she met you looking for the carriage you held it in your hand——” The words seemed forced from Cynthia. She placed a hand on the chair nearest her as she swayed slightly.
“She! Who?” The question was almost a roar.
“Annette.”