And yet so clever, so ingenious had she been, so subtle was her woman's wit, that she had never admitted to me any knowledge of him further than a formal introduction I had once made long ago.
I had trusted her—aye, trusted her with all the open sincerity of an honourable man—for I loved her better than anything else on earth. And with what result?
With my own senses of smell and of hearing I had detected her presence on the stairs—waiting, it seemed, to visit my friend in secret after I had left.
No doubt she had been unaware of my identity as his visitor, or she would never dared to have lurked there.
As I stood with my hand tenderly upon her arm, the gaze of my well-beloved was directed to the ground. Guilt seemed written upon her white brow, for she dared not raise her eyes to mine.
"Phrida, you know that woman—you can't deny knowledge of her—can you?"
She stood like a statue, with her hands clenched, her mouth half open, her jaws fixed.
"I—I—I don't know what you mean," she faltered at last, in a hard voice quite unusual to her.
"I mean that I have a suspicion, Phrida—a horrible suspicion—that you have deceived me," I said.
"How?" she asked, with her harsh, forced laugh.