"She spoke?" Denise faltered.
"Once, milady—to ask for Master Cyril; and again to say, 'Let it rest.'"
"Ah!" The greyness slipped from Denise's cheeks. The dead cannot speak. After all, she was to escape.
Then, his big bulk filling the door, her husband came in, Carteret following.
"Oh! oh!" she cried, and held her hands out, sobbing. "Oh, Cyrrie! the boy and poor Esmé. She died to save him. Oh!"
"You can go, Mrs Stanson." The sick fear crept back to Denise Blakeney's heart. "Yes, Cyrrie is gone; and now, Denise, you will tell the truth."
"The truth," she faltered. "I—and I am so miserable."
"You'll tell how you gave those diamonds to Mrs Carteret. You'll publish it in the big papers. That is one part—and then ... now the rest of the truth," he thundered. "Oh, you two poor fools."
"But, Cyril—what else?"
"All the rest," came quickly. "Of Italy and Esmé Carteret's child."