"Yes—him, him!" cried Monica, becoming hysterical. "My—my dead sister's child."
Hendrie recovered himself at once. He smoothed back his hair like a man at a loss.
"I—don't think I quite—get it," he said slowly. Then his bushy brows lifted questioningly. "Your sister's child? I didn't know you had a sister. You never told me. Say—how should I know where this child is?"
He was puzzled. Yet he was not without some doubts.
Monica swallowed with difficulty. Her throat and tongue were parched.
"No," she said, struggling for calmness. "I never told you because—because I had vowed to keep the secret. Questions would have followed the telling, which I could not have answered. I was bound—bound, and I could not break my promise."
"You best tell me all there is to tell," the man said coldly. "This secrecy, this promise. I don't understand—any of it."
Never had his wife's beauty appealed to Hendrie more than it did at that moment. A great depth of passionate feeling was stirring within him, but he permitted it no display. He was growing apprehensive, troubled. His doubt, too, was increasing.
Monica suddenly thrust out her hands in appeal.
"Oh, Alec, it is so hard, even now, to—to break my faith with the dead. And yet I know you are right. It—it is more than time for the truth. I think—yes, I believe if poor Elsie knew all, she would forgive me."