She made a desperate gesture.  “And because of this—­because of this—­you—­you accuse me of—­”

“I have accused you of nothing,” he said sternly.  “I have only asked you to tell me the truth.  I hoped you would do so of your own free will, but since you will not—­”

“Yes?” she cried back.  “Since I will not—?”

“I shall find another means,” he answered.

He rose abruptly.  They stood face to face.  There was no shrinking about Chris now.  She was braced to defiance.

“Where is that other letter?” he said.

“I have destroyed it.”

She uttered the words with quivering triumph, strung to a fever-pitch of excitement in which fear had no part.

His eyes went to her jewel-drawer.

“It is not there,” she said.  “The letter I hid there was the one you have just read.”

She spoke rapidly, but she was no longer incoherent.  Her words came without effort, and he knew that she was telling the truth as the victim in a torture-chamber might tell it, because she was goaded thereto and incapable at the moment of doing otherwise.  He also knew that, notwithstanding this, she was scarcely aware of what she said.  Out of the agony of her soul, because the pain was unbearable, she had yielded without knowing it.

“I only kept this letter,” she said, “in case he ever asked for more.  But it doesn’t matter now—­nothing will ever matter any more.  You know the worst, and”—­fiercely—­“you are welcome to know it.  I—­I’m even glad!  I’ve nothing left to be afraid of.”

She drew in her breath hysterically.  She was on the verge of dreadful laughter, but she caught it back, instinctively aware that she must keep her strength—­this unwonted strength of desperation that had come to her—­as long as possible.

He heard her without emotion.  His face was grim and mask-like, frozen into hard, unyielding lines.

“It is certainly best that I should know it,” he said.  “But I have not yet heard all.  How much did this Rodolphe charge for his silence?”

She had almost answered him before she remembered, and checked the words upon her lips.  “No, I don’t think I need tell you that,” she said.

“That is better than telling me a lie,” he rejoined.  “As a matter of fact, there is no need, as you say, for you to tell me.  I know what sum he asked for, and I know how he obtained it.”

He spoke with steady conviction, his eyes unwaveringly upon her.  For seconds now she had endured his look without flinching.  As she had said, there was nothing left for her to fear.  But at his words her face changed, and unmistakable apprehension took the place of despair.

“No, no!” she said quickly.  “He did not obtain it in that way.  At least—­at least—­Trevor, I swear to you that Bertrand knew nothing of that.”

“You need not take that trouble,” he said coldly.

She gripped her hands together.  “You don’t believe me—­but it is the truth.  Bertrand never knew that I had heard from Captain Rodolphe.”