"No," she said miserably.
"Because you could not. Denise, why lie to me?"
"I—I," she crouched down in her big chair, sick, frightened, wondering what lie might serve her best.
"I know Benhusan," he said. "I rang him up at his own house. Den—Esmé Carteret took that pendant, and—you lied to screen her."
The woman cowering in the chair turned as red as she had been pale, felt as some sinking swimmer who suddenly feels ground beneath his feet.
"I saw her standing at your safe, opening and shutting cases. She thought you might never miss this thing, as she knew you hated it. Denise, I don't blame you; but one cannot know a thief. It was that, was it not?"
Stronger people have taken their rescue at the cost of a friend's reputation. Denise was not strong; she was shallow-natured and afraid and shaken.
"Oh, Cyril," she said, beginning to cry. "Oh! don't tell a soul. Oh, promise—promise! She wanted money so badly."
"Money to spend upon herself, upon frocks and furs and entertainment. Den, she must not come to the house again. And this exonerates you from sending her gifts of money."
Sick fear jumped to life again. If there was any difficulty with Esmé's allowance the whole story might come out; she might still be ruined, disgraced.