“He is my friend—my best friend, as you will some day learn.”
“And you actually tell me this, Gwen!” he cried, staring at her. “You—whom I’ve loved so truly!”
“I am telling you the truth,” she replied, in a voice again strangely calm. “You need entertain no jealousy of him. He is my friend—my devoted friend—nothing more.”
“And you stay from home for days, and on returning tell me this!” he exclaimed, his brows contracted in fierce anger. “What is this fellow’s name?” he demanded.
“I am not at liberty to tell you,” she responded, “believe me if you will—if not,”—and she shrugged her shoulders without concluding her sentences.
“I have a right to know,” he blurted forth.
She realised the effect her words had had upon him. She saw his fierce jealousy and his dark suspicion. Yet what more could she say in the hideous circumstances. She was now the innocent victim of a silence imposed upon her by the man who had been her protector. How could she betray him into the hands of his enemies? Ah! her situation was surely one of the most difficult and maddening in which a girl had ever found herself.
To tell Frank Farquhar the truth would be to rouse his mad jealousy to a great pitch. He would seek out Mr Mullet, face him, and create a scene which must inevitably bring down upon her friend and protector the vengeance of those who held him so helpless in their unscrupulous hands.
Hence she foresaw the inevitable. It was as plain as it was tragic. Her refusal to give satisfactory replies to Frank’s most natural questions had aroused his darkest suspicion. He, on his part, discerned in her determination a deliberate attempt to mislead him. During his absence she had changed towards him, changed in a most curious way that held him mystified.
“You appear, Gwen, to be utterly unconcerned and careless as to whether I believe you or not,” he said gravely, after a few moments’ silence. “Well, I would like now to speak quite plainly and openly.”