THE TOUCHSTONE
"You didn't know, then?"
She seemed to speak with an effort. "Not until—not until—"
"Till I gave you those papers to sort?"
Her head sank.
"You understood then?"
"Yes."
He looked at her immovable face. "Had you suspected—before?" was slowly wrung from him.
"At times—yes—." Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Why? From anything that was said—?"
There was a shade of pity in her glance. "No one said anything—no one told me anything." She looked away from him. "It was your manner—"
"My manner?"
"Whenever the book was mentioned. Things you said—once or twice—your irritation—I can't explain."
Glennard, unconsciously, had moved nearer. He breathed like a man who has been running. "You knew, then, you knew—" he stammered. The avowal
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