Slowly Miriam took in the meaning of his words. Her face flamed scarlet, then went deadly white.
“You liar! You despicable liar!” she cried, and Trenholm caught her outflung hand. For one moment they confronted each other, then Nash broke the tense pause.
“Hysterics,” he commented, pursing up his lips. “Can you manage her, Sheriff, or shall I sent out one of the women?”
Trenholm looked down at Miriam, then across at Nash. “I need no assistance,“ he said, and the dryness of his voice was not lost on the clergyman. “You need not wait.”
Miriam tried to free herself from Trenholm’s grasp as Nash went inside the house. Suddenly she ceased struggling and rested limply against him.
“Do you feel better?” he asked, and the human sympathy in his voice almost broke her down. “Shall I get you a glass of wine?”
“No, thanks. I’ll be all right in a minute.” Miriam straightened up as she regained her self-control. She laid one hand over her rapidly beating heart, but her eyes did not falter in her direct gaze at him. “I owe you an apology for creating a scene.”
Trenholm looked at her long and searchingly. From behind a box hedge which skirted the walk, Pierre, the chauffeur, watched the tableau. He was too far away to hear what was said, but the sheriff’s expression provided him with food for thought.
Miriam broke the protracted pause. “Doctor Nash does not speak like an American,” she said. “What is his nationality?”
Trenholm turned to accompany her into the house. They had reached the veranda before he answered her question.