He was too refined a person to
whistle, but his attitude was suggestive of that mode of killing time.
"This door I wish you to unbar yourself before dinner on Thursday
evening," he said, turning round and slowly coming toward her.
"And I refuse to do it," said Etta.
"Ah!"
Etta sprung to her feet and faced him--a beautiful woman, a very queen
of anger. Her blazing eyes were on a level with his.
"Yes," she cried, with clenched fists, standing her full height till she
seemed to look down into his mean, fox-like face. "Yes; I refuse to
betray my husband--"
"Stop! He is not your husband!"
Slowly the anger faded out of her eyes; her clenched fists relaxed. Her
fingers were scraping nervously at the silk of her dress, like the
fingers of a child seeking support. She seemed to lose several inches of
her majestic stature.
"What do you mean?" she whispered. "What do you mean?"
"Sydney Bamborough is your husband," said the Frenchman, without taking
his dull eyes from her face.
"He is dead!" she hissed.
"Prove it!"
He walked past her and leaned against the mantelpiece in the pose of
easy familiarity which he had maintained during the first portion of
their interview.
"Prove it, madame!" he said again.
"He died at Tver," she said; but there was no conviction in her voice.
With her title and position to hold to, she could face the world.
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