m her, and stroking her hair
from her white brow. "I tell you at once that I do not give credence to
any of her foul allegations, only--well, in order to satisfy myself, I
have come direct to you to hear your explanation."

"My--my explanation!" she gasped, placing her hand to her brow and bowing
her head. "Ah! what explanation can I make of allegations I have never
heard?" she demanded. "Surely, Teddy, you are asking too much."

I grasped her hand, and holding it in mine gazed again upon her. We were
standing together near the centre of the room where the glowing fire
shed a genial warmth and lit up the otherwise gloomy and solemn
apartment.

Ah! how sweet she seemed to me, how dainty, how charming, how very pure.
And yet? Ah! the recollection of that woman's insinuations on the
previous night ate like a canker-worm into my heart. And yet how I loved
the pale, agitated girl before me! Was she not all the world to me?

A long and painful silence had fallen between us, a silence only broken
by the whirl of a taxi passing outside and the chiming of the long,
old-fashioned clock on the stairs.

At last I summoned courage to say in a calm, low voice;

"I am not asking too much, Phrida. I am only pressing you to act with
your usual honesty, and tell me the truth. Surely you can have nothing to
conceal?"

"How absurd you are, Teddy!" she said in her usual voice. "What can I
possibly have to conceal from you?"

"Pardon me," I said; "but you have already concealed from me certain very
important facts concerning my friend Digby."

"Who has told you that? The woman Petre, I suppose," she cried in anger.
"Very well, believe her, if you wish."

"But I don't believe her," I protested.

"Then why ask me for an explanation?"

"Because one is, I consider, due from you in the circumstances."

"Then you have set yourself up to be my judge, have you?" she asked,
drawing herself up proudly, all traces of her tears having vanished. I
saw that the attitude she had now assumed was one of defiance; therefore
I knew that if I were to obtain the information I desired I must act with
greatest discretion.

"No, Phrida," I answered. "I do not mistrust or misjudge you. All I ask
of you is the truth. What do you know of my friend Digby Kemsley?"

"Know of him--why, nothing--except that you introduced us."

For a second I remained silent. Then with severity I remarked:

"Pardon me, but I think you rather misunderstood my question.