"Marie's young man is a photographer; he snapped this at the seaside one day in June, years ago. Marie brought it to me, commenting on the likeness to you. I kept it. Come, Bertie, give me freedom, or I'll take it."
Holding the photograph, he saw what its evidence would mean. Idle to prate of innocence with this before the jury. It might be printed with a dozen suggestive names below it. His uncle would turn against him; Estelle would not get over it.
"Well?" she said, watching him.
"No, but ill," he answered. "Yes, it's true. We dropped asleep sitting looking at the sea. Pah! what use to tell you?... We merely dropped asleep. But if you show this there shall be counter action, Esmé."
"As I said," she flung out defiantly—"if I stay out at night, it's with companions."
He was ready with his counter-thrust; it darted, swift and true.
"From what companion," he asked slowly, "do you get your money? Do you think me a fool, Esmé, not to have noticed all that you spend and pay?"
The colour ebbed from her face now, leaving the reddened mouth, the rouged cheeks, standing out unnaturally.
Evidence was so easy to find and trump up; she wanted her freedom, but with her name untouched—it was her one chance.
"I've known for months or more that there was someone," he went on. "There is such a thing as common intelligence, Esmé."