“I suppose no one has been here?” asked Susie.
“No one.”
The lie slipped from Margaret’s lips before she had made up her mind to tell it. Her heart gave a great beat against her chest. She felt herself redden.
Susie got up to light a cigarette. She wished to rest her nerves. The box was on the table, and, as she helped herself, her eyes fell carelessly on the address that Haddo had left. She picked it up and read it aloud.
“Who on earth lives there?” she asked.
“I don’t know at all,” answered Margaret.
She braced herself for further questions, but Susie, without interest, put down the sheet of paper and struck a match.
Margaret was ashamed. Her nature was singularly truthful, and it troubled her extraordinarily that she had lied to her greatest friend. Something stronger than herself seemed to impel her. She would have given much to confess her two falsehoods, but had not the courage. She could not bear that Susie’s implicit trust in her straightforwardness should be destroyed; and the admission that Oliver Haddo had been there would entail a further acknowledgment of the nameless horrors she had witnessed. Susie would think her mad.
There was a knock at the door; and Margaret, her nerves shattered by all that she had endured, could hardly restrain a cry of terror. She feared that Haddo had returned. But it was Arthur Burdon. She greeted him with a passionate relief that was unusual, for she was by nature a woman of great
