CHAPTER VIII
BLACKMAIL
Betty Carter watched Miriam disappear up the staircase before she moved. Crossing the living room she stopped in front of the fire and warmed her hands, then sitting down she toyed idly with a string of pearls about her neck.
“Still conscious of your pearls?” asked Guy Trenholm. He had followed her across the room and paused in front of her.
Betty crimsoned from neck to brow and her eyes flamed with wrath.
“If you can’t refrain from insults, don’t address me,” she said.
It was Trenholm’s turn to color. “You misunderstood me,” he exclaimed. “Seeing you playing with your pearls reminded me of your inordinate fondness for jewelry when in Paris.”
“Inordinate fondness,” echoed Betty, and her delicately arched eyebrows rose in displeasure. “Your explanation is in as questionable taste as your first remark.”
Trenholm shrugged his shoulders. “If you take offense so easily, we’ll change the subject,” he said. “Where were you off to so early this morning?”
She looked at him without speaking and Trenholm occupied the time in lighting a cigarette, after first asking her permission, which was given with a nod of her head.
When she finally spoke it was to ask a question and not to answer his.