“I don’t care if you do,” she flung back at him.
“You would care for him just the same?” he asked.
“I have not said that I care for him at all,” she said, a trace of caution creeping into her manner.
“I shall give you the opportunity to prove it one way or another within a few minutes. We have come to the parting of the ways.”
It was at this moment Anthony Trent knocked timidly upon the door. The stage was set to his liking. When he was bidden to enter his quick eye took in everything. There, out of sight d’Aucquier skulked while he prepared to hear his despicable history told to the woman who was his victim. As for the woman she was defiant. She would probably elect to follow a scoundrel who had fascinated her and leave a man behind whose good name she had trailed in the dust. The situation was not a new one but Trent was moved by it. Carr Faulkner had all his sympathy. He registered a vow if ever he met d’Aucquier, or whatever his name might be, to exact a punishment.
“Excuse me,” said Anthony Trent, stepping into the room, “but my train leaves in twenty minutes—I live out in Long Island—and I’ve got to catch it or else the missus will be worrying.”
Mrs. Faulkner looked at him frowning. She wanted to get this scene over. He was a good looking piano tuner, she decided, and now his tragedy was plain. He who had no doubt once aimed at the concert stage tuned pianos to support a wife and home in Long Island!
“I’ll finish the job to-morrow morning.”
She waved him toward the door imperiously. Every moment she and her husband spent in this room added to the chance of the hiding man’s discovery.
“Why don’t you go?” she cried.