“I cannot,” he said sorrowfully. “I cannot say that. But——”
“She gave her word! Tome. To others.”
“I allow it. But——”
“But what? What?” with hardly restrained rage. “Will you still, sir, take her side against the innocent? Against the child, whom she has conspired to entrap, to carry off, perhaps to murder?”
“Oh, no, no!” Mr. Sutton cried in unfeigned horror. “That I do not believe! I do not believe that for an instant! I allow, I admit,” he continued eagerly, “that she has been weak, and that she has madly, foolishly permitted this wretch to retain a hold over her.”
“At any rate,” Clyne retorted, his rage at a white heat, “she has lied to me!”
“I admit it.”
“And to others!”
The chaplain could only hold out his hands in deprecation.
“You will admit that she has continued to communicate with a man she should loathe? A man whom, if she were a modest girl, she would loathe? That she has stolen to midnight interviews with him, leaving this house as a thief leaves it? That she has cast all modesty from her?”