“I don’t know about his being a coward, and I don’t care about his being a brute,” he told her steadily.  “But I do want to know what he looks like.”

Again she called herself a little fool and bit her lip in the surge of her vexation.  She had been glad and over eager just now to restore her faith to this big brut of a man; at a mere word from him she had been ready to condone a crime and forgive an insult....  She felt her face grow hot; he had kissed her rudely and she had been willing to find excuses, she had even felt as odd sort of thrill tingling through her.  And now this eternal play-acting of his, this insane pretence....

“Mr. Thornton, this is getting us nowhere,” she reminded him coldly.  “If you care to be told I can assure you that I know perfectly well who the man was who ... who came into the cabin that night.  And I think that it would be for the best if you returned ... my property!”

“I’m going to return it.  Now, will you answer my question?  Will you tell me who that man was?”

“Why do you pretend in this stupid way?” she demanded hotly.

“Why don’t you tell me who he was?” he returned, frowning a little.

For a moment she did not answer.  Then, her voice very low, she said, speaking slowly,

“I don’t tell you, Mr. Thornton, because you know as well as I do!”

She saw nothing but blank amazement in his eyes.

“If I knew I wouldn’t be asking you,” he informed her.

Again she looked up at him, their eyes meeting steadily, searchingly.

“You say that you don’t know who it was?” she challenged.  And the eyes into which she looked were as clear of guile as a mountain lake when he answered: 

“No.  I don’t know!”

Then through lips which were moulded to a passionate scorn no less of self than of him, in a fierce whisper, she paid him in the coin of her contempt with the one word:  “Liar!”

She saw the anger leap up into his eyes and the red run into his bronzed skin, she felt the arm about her contract tensely until for one dizzy second she thought that he would crush her.  And then they were swinging on through the dance to the merry beat of the music and above the music she heard his soft laugh.

He did not look at her, nor did she again lift her eyes to his.  But both of them saw Broderick where he stood near the door, his hands shoved down into his pockets, his tall, gaunt form leaning against the wall.  His eyes had been following them, and there was in them an expression hard to read.  It might have been anger or distrust or suspicion.

And both Thornton and Winifred as they turned in the dance caught a quick glimpse of the face of another man.  It was Henry Pollard.  He had evidently just come in and as evidently had not seen Thornton and his niece dancing together until this moment.  And the look in his eyes springing up naked and startled was a thing easy to read.  For it was the look of fear!