Close by Denise sat listening, afraid to speak, hoping she was not showing her fear, her heart fluttering.
"Yes. Curiously, my wife has a duplicate of this, one an old aunt gave to her. Wear yours to-night, Denise."
"I hate it, Cyrrie," she faltered.
"Yet wear it," he said very quietly, and strolled away. Sir Cyril never seemed to hurry.
Denise, for the best reasons, could not wear the pendant. Wild thoughts shot through her head. Should she go to Mrs Richmond, borrow the diamonds, make up a story? No, for the gossiping fool would repeat it all over London.
It was late when Denise came to her room; she sent her maid away, sat by the fire. It was so comfortable there; she was surrounded by rich things; her dressing-table gleamed with gold and ivory; her bed was carved white wood, a nest of silken eider-down.
And if Cyril knew.
He came in then, quietly, walked to the fire and stood looking down at her.
Some silences are harder to bear than words. Denise shivered nervously.
"You did not wear the pendant to-night, Denise."