Madeline, looking at Stewart, seeing a humility she at first took for cowardice, suddenly divined that it was not fear for himself which made him dread further disclosures of that night, but fear for her—fear of shame she might suffer through him.
Pat Hawe cocked his head to one side, like a vulture about to strike with his beak, and cunningly eyed Madeline.
“Considered as testimony, what you’ve said is sure important an’ conclusive. But I’m calculatin’ thet the court will want to hev explained why you stayed from eleven-thirty till one-thirty in thet waitin’-room alone with Stewart.”
His deliberate speech met with what Madeline imagined a remarkable reception from Stewart, who gave a tigerish start; from Stillwell, whose big hands tore at the neck of his shirt, as if he was choking; from Alfred, who now strode hotly forward, to be stopped by the cold and silent Nels; from Monty Price, who uttered a violent “Aw!” which was both a hiss and a roar.
In the rush of her thought Madeline could not interpret the meaning of these things which seemed so strange at that moment. But they were portentous. Even as she was forming a reply to Hawe’s speech she felt a chill creep over her.
“Stewart detained me in the waiting-room,” she said, clear-voiced as a bell. “But we were not alone—all the time.”
For a moment the only sound following her words was a gasp from Stewart. Hawe’s face became transformed with a hideous amaze and joy.
“Detained?” he whispered, craning his lean and corded neck. “How’s thet?”
“Stewart was drunk. He—”
With sudden passionate gesture of despair Stewart appealed to her: