"That there was an affair,"—Rondelet blew a cloud of white vapor from his lips and listened,—"in which your friends say you were but a second; other people—how curiously your eyes have dilated!—other people say that you, you killed him."
Philip inhaled a long breath of smoke, and asked, "And then?"
"And then—hints about some low woman of color. It was this that first made me know that it was a lie."
"And why?"
"Because, with such a double sin fresh upon your soul, you would not dare to love Margaret Ruysdale."
For the first time in that strange interview Rondelet changed color. Mrs. Harden continued: "I never do things by halves. Once convinced that you were innocent, I was determined to know who was guilty of the murder—killing, if you like the word better—of Fernand Thoron."
The cigarette was consumed; a heap of yellow ashes in a tray being all that was left of it. Rondelet lighted another with a hand that was not quite steady.
"I think I know who the man is. Will you tell me if I have guessed correctly?"
"I cannot."
