When he faced her again he was master of himself.
"Listen," he said; "I was a little overwrought.

I spoke wildly.

I have no right to make such an accusation.

But--" She held out her hand as though to stop him, but he went steadily on.
"But I have a right to demand that you tell me the truth as to what you were doing in Barnes' rooms that night, and what you know of his death.
Remember that but for me you would have had to tell your story to a less sympathetic audience." "I never forget it," she answered, and for the first time her change to a more natural tone helped him to believe in himself and his own judgment.
"If you want me to tell you how grateful I am, I might try, but it would be a very hard task." "All that I ask of you," he pleaded, "is that you tell me enough to convince me that my silence was justified.

Tell me at least that you had no knowledge of or share in that man's death!" "I cannot do that," she answered.
He took a quick step backwards.