"I was in the library when they--went out. I had come up to see--I was
with my uncle in the cab--and wondered why he--"

She stopped; he took a quick step toward her. "You were in there, that
room, when--"

"Yes," she said, and threw back her head, as if to contradict a sudden
mistiness that seemed stupidly sweeping over her gaze. "Why did you not
tell me--you did not?--that you were innocent?"

"You were in there?" He did not seem to catch her words.
"Heard--heard--?"

A moment they stood looking at each other; suddenly she reached out her
hands to him. With a quick exclamation he caught and held them.

But in a moment he let them fall. What had he been about to say, to do,
with the fair face, the golden head, so near? He stepped back
quickly--madness! Had he not yet learned control? Had the lessons not
been severe enough? But he was master of himself now, could look at her
coldly. Fortunately she had not guessed, did not know he had almost--She
stood near the back of a chair, her face half-averted; perhaps she
appeared slightly paler, but he was not sure; it might be only the
shadow of the thick golden hair.

"You--are going away?" She was the first to speak. Her voice was, in the
least, uncertain.

"To-morrow," without looking at her.