Monica turned again and looked up into his eyes. A sudden weakness left her knees shaking.
"Yes," she said, and stammered on. "I—I—hardly know where—to—begin."
Hendrie left the table and drew a step nearer.
"You're in some trouble, my Mon," he said kindly. "I can see it in your face. Tell me, dear."
His words had their effect. Monica's fears lessened, and something of her courage returned. Suddenly she threw up her head.
"No, no! You tell me, Alec!" she cried. "Tell me truly, as though you were answering your own soul, is there—is there a condition, a moment, a situation in life when it become wrong to keep a solemn vow given—to the dead? I hold that a vow to the dead is the most sacred thing in—life. Am I right—or wrong?"
The man's gray eyes expressed neither surprise nor curiosity. They were calmly considering, and in their calm they were painfully cold.
He shook his head.
"You are wrong," he said simply. "The most sacred thing in life is—Truth. When Truth demands, no vow to dead or living can bind."
Monica sighed.