"So I shall—if you will tell me all the truth. I would go with you anywhere, to prison if need be, if you would be open with me."
"We needn't talk of going to prison yet awhile!" he exclaimed in exasperation.
He went to the sideboard, and pouring himself a glass of whiskey, set the decanter on the table.
"They can't do anything but talk," he repeated. Then, warmed by the liquor, he began to be more insolent, to speak defiantly.
"Pemberton's been after me from the start. He wanted Wright to get the work in the first place, and he's tried to put every obstacle he could in my way. It was first one thing and then another. He has made life unendurable with his prying and his suspicions. But I won't stand it another day. I'm going to Everett to-morrow and tell him that I shall get out if Pemberton is to interfere with my orders. And they can't lay a finger on me, I tell you! Pemberton can just talk!"
Helen had put her head between her hands, and she was sobbing. Every hot word that he spoke drove conviction against him into her heart. At last she raised her tear-stained face and cried out with a new access of power:—
"Stop! Stop!"
Then she rose, took the decanter of whiskey, replaced it on the sideboard, and seated herself by his side, putting her hand on his arm.
"Francis, if you care for me, if you want us ever to love each other again, answer me honestly. Have you and that contractor done anything wrong about the school?"
"You can't understand," he replied roughly, drawing his arm from her touch. "You are making a great deal out of your own imagination."