He looked from the clock to the doorway, where stood Elizabeth.
CHAPTER VII.
THE FLIGHT OF THE MINUTES.
The silence of her entrance was from her having, a few minutes earlier, exchanged her riding-boots for satin slippers.
“I—I thank you for coming, madam,” said Peyton, feeling the necessity of a prompt reply to her imperious look of inquiry, yet without a practicable idea in his head. “I had—that is—a request to make.”
He was trembling violently, not from fear, but from that kind of agitation which often precedes the undertaking of a critical task, as when a suppliant awaits an important interview, or an actor assumes for the first time a new part.
“Mr. Valentine said a confession,” said Elizabeth, holding him in a coldly resentful gaze.
“Why, yes, a confession,” said he, hopelessly.