She had broken into speech almost before we sat down. It was as if she feared that if she did not get it out at once she would not speak at all. She was intensely agitated.
"Jeff," she said, "I've wronged you—cruelly and basely."
I did not smile at the melodramatic little phrase. I had not the ghost of an idea what she meant, but that something was impending I was already aware.
"I saw you didn't know last night," she went on. "This morning?"
It was a question. "I'm no wiser this morning," I said.
"You asked me where I was going last night."
"I did."
"Can you guess why when—when I tell you it was to Louie Causton's?"
I shook my head.
"Even then I cannot guess."