“H’m-m,” murmured the lawyer, his level gaze on her face, “you knew him before, perhaps—this man they—er—call ‘Westbrook.’”
The lady sprang to her feet and crossed the room to the piano.
“Oh, fie, Mr. Lawyer!” she laughed nervously. “I’m no poor victim on the witness stand. Come—let’s try this duet.”
The man followed her and leaned his elbow on the piano, but he did not pick up the music nor take his eyes from her face.
“You have known him before, then—under his other name, of course,” he hazarded.
A swift red came into Ethel’s cheeks.
“Perhaps—perhaps not! I really do not care to discuss it.” And she wheeled around upon the piano-stool and dashed into the prelude of the duet.
Martin waited until her hands glided into the soft ripple of the accompaniment.
“Then you, of all people, Miss Barrington,” he began again, “should know that this philanthropic mummery is nothing but a salve for his conscience. Admirable, I’m sure!”
The music stopped with a crash.