“I told Senator Carew that I had heard a member of one of the embassies here declare that Miss Thornton was an international spy.”
“And what did he say to that statement?”
“He said that he would look into the matter.”
“When did this conversation take place?”
“On Monday afternoon.”
“And is that all you have to go upon for such an accusation?” inquired Brett scornfully.
Douglas was gazing moodily ahead of him. A memory of Paris, of Eleanor’s extraordinary behavior there, of the whispers which followed her about, harassed him. Had his faith been misplaced? No, a thousand times no. He would pin all hope of future happiness on her innocence and purity of soul. He rose suddenly and stepped behind her chair, and laid his hand encouragingly on her shoulder. She looked up, startled, then, seeing him, her lips parted in a smile, and her hand stole up to meet his. His firm clasp gave her courage to face the situation, for it told her of his unshaken confidence and love.
Winthrop glowered at them when he saw the tableau, and his eyes gleamed wickedly. “It is very obvious,” he said, “that Senator Carew found my statement was true, and charged her with being a spy; then left her house. Exposure meant Miss Thornton’s ruin; even her influential relatives,”—he glanced meaningly at Thornton,—“could not intervene to save her, so she took the law into her own hands, picked up the letter file, stole out of the house, opened the carriage door, engaged the Senator in conversation—and stabbed him.”
A strained silence followed, which the Secretary was the first to break. He turned directly to Eleanor.