Yet I did not speak immediately. I was trying to be quite calm, trying to think of the best line for me to take. So much might depend upon our mere words now. At length I said, laying my hand upon hers, which was outside the coverlet:
“Margot, what were you doing in that room at such a strange hour? Why were you there?”
She hesitated obviously. Then she answered, not looking at me:
“I missed you. I thought you might be there—writing.”
“But you were in the dark.”
“I thought you would have a light.”
I knew by her manner that she was not telling me the truth, but I went on quietly:
“If you expected me, why did you cry out when I came to the door?”
She tried to draw her hand away, but I held it fast, closing, my fingers upon it with even brutal strength.
“Why did you cry out?”