“Then, Miss Carter, you did not have a good view of the man in the bed?”
“But it was Paul,” she protested. “I knew his voice.”
“Voices can be imitated,” Trenholm spoke slowly. “And a poor imitation would have passed muster in your state of excitement. You were expecting to find Paul there—and you were not critical.”
“But I tell you I saw his face.”
“How much of it?”
“His dark hair, his general contour—oh, pshaw, his beard—”
“Did you see his eyes?” asked Trenholm. “Did you lean over and kiss him?”
Betty flushed crimson, from throat to brow. “He kept his eyes closed—sick men do that”—with a defiant glance at Miriam as if challenging her to contradict her statement. “I, eh, I didn’t kiss Paul because—because—” her voice died away and rose again. “He was ill and—eh—”
“And you loved another man!” Trenholm’s tone cut like a whiplash, and she swayed upon her feet. “Come, confess that you consented to marry Paul because he promised you the Paltoff diamond.”
Three times Betty strove to speak. “You are the devil incarnate!” she gasped. “I tell you I married Paul!“ Her clenched fist struck the bedstead a sharp blow. “See, look here,” and from around her neck she dragged off a gold chain which she had worn concealed underneath her gown. From it was suspended a heavy gold ring.