He took her in his arms, roughly, exasperated by her denial.
“By God, I’ll make you tell!” he said angrily.
“Don’t touch me,” she said shuddering.
“Who sent you here?” he demanded, not releasing her.
“I’m afraid,” she groaned. “Oh, I’m afraid. I hate you! I hate you! Let me go! let me go!”
“Who sent you here?” he repeated, still holding her.
“I’ll tell,” she said brokenly. Then, when he let her go, she sank into a chair. “I can’t go through with it—you’ve beaten me—Oh, I tried so hard, so hard, but you’ve won. It’s too unfair when it’s not my fault. You can’t understand, or you wouldn’t spoil my whole life like this. It’s not only me, it’s my mother, my sister—Amy.”
Denby, watching her hardly controllable agitation, was forced to readjust his opinion concerning her. This was not any adventuress trained in artifice and ruse, but the woman he had thought her to be in the deepest sorrow. The bringing in of her mother and sister was not, he felt sure, a device employed merely to gain his sympathy and induce leniency in her captor.
And when it seemed she must sob out a confession of those complex motives which had led her to seek his betrayal, Denby saw her clench her hands and pull herself together.
“No,” she said, rising to her feet, her weakness cast off, “I won’t quit—no matter what happens to me. I’ll expose you, and tell them everything. I’ll let them decide between us—whether they’ll believe you or me. It’s either you or my sister, and I’ll save her.”