He stooped over her, and suddenly possessed himself of her hand.  Holding her hand firmly, he stooped a little lower; searching for the signs which might answer him in her face.  His own face darkened slowly while he looked.  He was beginning to suspect her; and he acknowledged it in his next words.

“Something has changed you toward me, Clara.  Somebody has influenced you against me.  Is it—­you force me to ask the question—­is it some other man?”

“You have no right to ask me that.”

He went on without noticing what she had said to him.

“Has that other man come between you and me?  I speak plainly on my side.  Speak plainly on yours.”

“I have spoken.  I have nothing more to say.”

There was a pause.  She saw the warning light which told of the fire within him, growing brighter and brighter in his eyes.  She felt his grasp strengthening on her hand.  He appealed to her for the last time.

“Reflect,” he said, “reflect before it is too late.  Your silence will not serve you.  If you persist in not answering me, I shall take your silence as a confession.  Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“Clara Burnham!  I am not to be trifled with.  Clara Burnham!  I insist on the truth.  Are you false to me?”

She resented that searching question with a woman’s keen sense of the insult that is implied in doubting her to her face.

“Mr. Wardour! you forget yourself when you call me to account in that way.  I never encouraged you.  I never gave you promise or pledge—­”

He passionately interrupted her before she could say more.

“You have engaged yourself in my absence.  Your words own it; your looks own it!  You have engaged yourself to another man!”

“If I have engaged myself, what right have you to complain of it?” she answered firmly.  “What right have you to control my actions—?”

The next words died away on her lips.  He suddenly dropped her hand.  A marked change appeared in the expression of his eyes—­a change which told her of the terrible passions that she had let loose in him.  She read, dimly read, something in his face which made her tremble—­not for herself, but for Frank.

Little by little the dark color faded out of his face.  His deep voice dropped suddenly to a low and quiet tone as he spoke the parting words.

“Say no more, Miss Burnham—­you have said enough.  I am answered; I am dismissed.”  He paused, and, stepping close up to her, laid his hand on her arm.

“The time may come,” he said, “when I shall forgive you.  But the man who has robbed me of you shall rue the day when you and he first met.”

He turned and left her.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Crayford, entering the conservatory, was met by one of the attendants at the ball.  The man stopped as if he wished to speak to her.

“What do you want?” she asked.