“Ah!” I cried, “I thought so. The secret of a love-affair—eh?”
“It concerns a love-affair, it is true, but not our own.”
“Oh, now this is interesting!” I cried with bitter sarcasm. “You are bound to each other because of your common knowledge of the love-affair of a third person. That is curious, to say the least of it. No,” I added, “I’m afraid, Edith, I cannot accept such a remarkable explanation, notwithstanding the ingenuity displayed in its construction.”
“In other words, you insinuate that I am lying to you!” she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing with indignation.
“I do not use the term ‘lying,’” I said with a smile; “the word ‘prevarication’ is more applicable. A woman never lies.”
“You are not treating me seriously,” she complained quickly. “I have come here to tell you all that I can, and—”
“And you have told me practically nothing,” I interposed.
“I have told you all that I dare at present,” she answered. “Some day, ere long, I hope to be in a position to make full confession to you, and then you will fully understand my action and appreciate the extreme difficulty and deadly peril in which I find myself at this moment.”
“You admit that you have a confession to make?”
“Of course I admit it. I wronged you when I met that man on the very night you were a guest beneath our roof. It is but just that you should know the whole of the ghastly truth.”