“I demand a reply to my question,” I cried angrily.
“Ask her yourself. It is not for me to denounce her before she has sought my downfall.”
“But you make a distinct allegation!”
“And one that I can substantiate when the time is ripe,” was the woman’s firm fearless answer.
“But you can clear her character if it suits you!” I exclaimed quickly. “You have admitted that.”
“You think fit to take the part of my enemies against me, therefore you will find me merciless,” was her vague ominous reply. “Go to Scotland and see Lolita. Tell her that I have sent you—and,” she added, “tell her from me to keep her mouth closed, or else the story of Hugh Wingfield shall be known, You will recollect the name, won’t you?—Hugh Wingfield.”
I stood silent, unable to respond, for that was the name of the young man who was so foully done to death in that hollow behind the beech avenue.
“Moreover,” she went on, noticing the effect of her words upon me, “moreover, you are at liberty to tell George what you like concerning me. He loves me—and when a man’s in love he believes no evil of the woman. So go!” she laughed. “And afterwards tell me what he says. I shall be so very interested to know.”