“Then why do I find him here with you to-night: this night of all nights?”
“He is not here with me,” said she, flushing.
“I came from—from where you saw me,” began Sedgwick, “on a reckless impulse. Believe me, sir—”
“One moment! Marjorie, I think you had best go to your room.”
The girl’s soft lips straightened into a line of inflexibility. “I wish to speak to Mr. Sedgwick,” she said.
“Speak then, and quickly.”
“No; I wish to speak to him alone. There is an explanation which I owe him.”
“And there is one which he owes you,” retorted Blair. “As he seems to have been too cowardly to give it, I will supply his deficiencies. In order that there may be no misunderstanding, let me present Mr. Francis Sedgwick, the murderer.”
A low cry, the most desolate, the most stricken sound that Sedgwick had ever heard from human lips, trembled on the air. Before he could gather his senses to retort and deny, she had drawn herself to her feet—and the rose-bowered window framed only emptiness. Sedgwick whirled upon the other man. “Of course,” he said with deceptive calmness; “you know that you lie.”
“I know that I speak truth,” retorted Mr. Blair with so profound a conviction that the other was shaken.