“He told me.”

“What?  Farnham himself?  You have been with him?”

She bowed, a half-stifled sob shaking her body, which at any other time would have caused him to pause in sympathy.  Now it was merely a new spur to his awakened suspicion.  He had no thought of sparing her.

“Where?  Did he call upon you at the hotel?”

She threw back her shoulders in indignation at his tone of censure.

“I met him, after the performance, in a private box at the Gayety, last evening,” she replied more calmly.  “He sent for me, and I was alone with him for half an hour.”

Winston stood motionless, almost breathless, looking directly into the girl’s face.  He durst not speak the words of rebuke trembling upon his lips.  He felt that the slightest mistake now would never be forgiven.  There was a mystery here unsolved; in some way he failed to understand her, to appreciate her motives.  In the brief pause Beth Norvell came back to partial self-control, to a realization of what this man must think of her.  With a gesture almost pleading she softly touched his sleeve.

“Mr. Winston, I truly wish you to believe me, to believe in me,” she began, her low voice vibrating with emotion.  “God alone knows how deeply I appreciate your friendship, how greatly I desire to retain it unsullied.  Perhaps I have not done right; it is not always easy, perhaps not always possible.  I may have been mistaken in my conception of duty, yet have tried to do what seemed best.  There is that in the pages of my past life which I intended to tell you fully and frankly before our final parting.  I thought when I came here I had sufficient courage to relate it to you to-day, but I cannot—­I cannot.”

“At least answer me one question without equivocation—­do you love that man?” He must ask that, know that; all else could wait.

An instant she stood before him motionless, a slight color creeping back into her cheeks under his intense scrutiny.  Then she uplifted her eyes frankly to his own, and he looked down into their revealed depth.

“I do not,” the low voice hard with decision.  “I despise him.”

“Have you ever loved him?”

“As God is my witness—­no.”

There was no possible disbelieving her; the absolute truthfulness of that utterance was evidenced by trembling lips, by the upturned face.  Winston drew a deep breath of relief, his contracted brows straightening.  For one hesitating moment he remained speechless, struggling for self-control.  Merciful Heavens! would he ever understand this woman?  Would he ever fathom her full nature? ever rend the false from the true?  The deepening, baffling mystery served merely to stimulate ambition, to strengthen his unwavering purpose.  He possessed the instinct that assured him she cared; it was for his sake that she had braved the night and Farnham’s displeasure.  What, then, was it that was holding them apart?  What was the nature of this barrier beyond all surmounting?  The man in him rebelled at having so spectral an adversary; he longed to fight it out in the open, to grapple with flesh and blood.  In spite of promise, his heart found words of protest.