Chapter Thirty Three.
Vera’s Secret.
A few hours had elapsed since my acquittal, and after a brush up and a hasty meal I had entered Vera’s sitting-room.
It was already dark. The tiny electric lamps flooded with amber light the small apartment rendered cosy by the drawn curtains. On a lounge chair she sat, wrapped in a pale grey cashmere gown, with a bunch of crimson roses in her breast. At sight of me she rose. Not a muscle of her countenance stirred, I and could divine her embarrassment by the sharp glance she momentarily darted at me.
I scented in this proceeding some annoying mystery.
A constrained silence reigned for some moments.
“Frank,” exclaimed she, in a very calm tone, advancing slowly and taking my hand, “at last we are alone.”
“Yes, Vera,” I replied, calling to my aid all my coolness to feign a serenity which I was far from possessing. “Now, perhaps, you will let me know this secret of yours which has so long estranged us, and brought us all this sorrow.”
She stood motionless, with compressed lips, and shivering slightly, said,—