"Ah!" he cried, quickly noting her change of colour. "Then he doesn't know!"
No one better than Madeline Braine could better realise the full import of this sneer. Advancing toward him, her limbs dragging against her skirts, giving her the appearance of a woman struggling forward on her knees, she caught at one corner of the desk and leaned against it, crying:
"Peter, I love this man. You won't—why should he know——"
"Why shouldn't he?" was the man's cruel answer. "You love him...."
"No, no, no!" she cried. "Don't you understand—we're going away—going West, never to come back. If he doesn't know, all will be well...."
"Oh, so everything is going to be lovely," grinned Peter, "until he finds out. But when he finds out? What then?"
For a long time she pleaded with him, while he, lolling back comfortably in his chair, leisurely blew rings of smoke in the air. Finally he rose, and held out his hand.
"You're sure, Madeline, that you've made up your mind to leave me? Sure?"
For answer, the girl inclined her head.
Wilkinson frowned.