“Don’t lie, you worthless creature,” she said. “They stopped at my house on their way while the girl packed a suitcase.”
Mr. Penway threw up his brief. There are moments when the stoutest-hearted, even under the influence of old Bourbon, realize that to fight on is merely to fight in vain.
He condensed his emotions into four words.
“Of all the chumps!” he remarked, and, pouring himself out a further instalment of the raw spirit, he sat down, a beaten man.
Mrs. Porter continued to harry him.
“Exactly,” she said. “So you see that there is no need for any more subterfuge and concealment. I do not intend to leave this room until you have told me all you have to tell, so you had better be quick about it. Kindly tell me the truth in as few words as possible—if you know what is meant by telling the truth.”
A belated tenderness for his dignity came to Mr. Penway.
“You are insulting,” he remarked. “You are—you are—most insulting.”
“I meant to be,” said Mrs. Porter crisply. “Now. Tell me. Where has Mr. Winfield gone?”
Mr. Penway preserved an offended silence. Mrs. Porter struck the table a blow with a book which caused him to leap in his seat.