She paused, her invention for the moment spent, apparently. It would be humane to give some sign of a pretence of credulity, but none came.
“I suppose,” she resumed with regathered pluck, though still trembling all over from the evidently very bad fright she had had, “that when he saw I had nothing to give—I told him I had no purse with me—he got angry, and——”
A voice at last broke in—an icy voice. Why should he allow her to sink deeper into her abyss of lies?
“Beggars do not usually wear fur coats and motoring caps.”
He saw a new and different fear born in her eyes; but in a second she was trying to conceal it.
“Was he—dressed like that? I was too frightened to notice! Was he—anybody that—that—you knew? that—that you recognized?”
The temptation to lead her into confession, by affecting to know more than he did, was strong; but he resisted.
“No!” he answered, and instantly saw a light of relief spring into her eyes. “I could not see his face clearly enough for recognition; but,” he added, with stern gentleness, “I cannot believe that he was equally unknown to you!”
By this time she was recovering, and her weapons were getting into order again, the bodily terror that had for the moment floored her giving way to a moral fear.
“I cannot think why you are always so ready to distrust me!” she sighed. “What motive could I have for deceiving you?”