“I don’t know,” said Io. She was deadly pale with a surmise too monstrous for utterance.
He put it into words for her.
“Io, did you tell Errol Banneker that you were sending for me?”
“Yes.”
Even in the midst of the ruin which he saw closing in upon his career—that career upon which Camilla Van Arsdale had newly built her last pride and hope and happiness—he could feel for the agony of the girl before him.
“He couldn’t have betrayed me!” cried Io: but, as she spoke, the memory of other treacheries overwhelmed her.
The train rumbled in. Enderby stooped and kissed her forehead.
“My dear,” he said gently, “I’m afraid you’ve trusted him once too often.”