"Her child!" she muttered. "Poor Esmé. Oh, Bertie, listen! we can hear what they are saying, and it's as well to know."
The voices rang clearly. Esmé was flinging out passionate words, demanding justice.
"You'll not take him," Denise cried. "Esmé, it would ruin me."
"Did you think when you allowed me to be ruined?" stormed Esmé—"saw me cut, banned by my friends?"
"You wrote a foolish letter," wailed Denise. "Cyril thought you had stolen the diamonds. I never told him so."
"No, but to save yourself you left it at that. You acted a cruel lie. Now give me my boy. I have borne enough."
"You cannot prove it," Denise sobbed piteously. "No, Esmé, no."
"I can and will. Because I was weak, and loved ease and pleasure, all this has come. The world believes me to be a thief—my husband that I am an adulteress. At least I'll have my boy. Oh, Denise, do you know how I've longed for him? How my whole life has been one ache of regret?"
"But the scandal. Oh, God! I cannot face Cyril." Denise flung herself down on the soft sand, gripping it with her hands. "I'll give you more money, anything."
"Nothing but the truth will give me back my honour. Where is the boy?"