He turned away. Clementina rose from her chair by the writing-table and followed him.
“What was between you and Will Hammersley?”
For an instant he had an impulse to tell her, she looked so strong, so honest. But he checked it. Confidence was impossible. The shame of the dead must be buried with the dead. He pointed to the documents lying on the table.
“He thought I never knew. I never knew,” said he.
“I give it up,” said Clementina.
A memory smote him. He bent his brows upon her. His eyes were sad and clear.
“You have no inkling of the matter?”
“None in the least. Good Lord!” she broke out impatiently, “if I had, do you suppose I’d be cross-questioning you? I’d be trying to help you, as I want to do.”
He threw himself wearily into a chair and leant his head on his hand.
“I’ve had queer experiences of late,” he said. “I’ve learned to trust nobody. How can I tell that you’re sincere in saying you want to help me?”