“He has suffered worse for your sake!” I said, bitterly.
“What?” she flashed out, confronting me in an instant.
“You must know that,” I said—“three years of hell—prison—utter ruin! Do you dare deny you have been ignorant of this?”
For a space she stood there, struck speechless; then, “Call him!” she cried. “Call him, I tell you! Bring him here—I want him here—here before us both!” She sprang to the door, but I blocked her way.
“I will not have Madame de Vassart know what you did to him!” I said. “If you want Kelly Eyre, I will call him.” And I stepped into the hallway.
Eyre, passing the long stone corridor, looked up as I beckoned; and when he entered the tea-room, Sylvia, white as a ghost, met him face to face.
“Monsieur,” she said, harshly, “why did you not come to that book-store?”
He was silent. His face was answer enough—a terrible answer.
“Monsieur Eyre, speak to me! Is it true? Did they—did you not know that I made an error—that I did go on Monday at the same hour?”
His haggard face lighted up; she saw it, and caught his hands in hers.