The package dropped from Anne’s hands to the floor. Her lips moved, but she made no sound. In the moonlight her face was grey-white, bloodless.
Donald Lane stepped forward into the room toward her.
“You, Anne—you!” he said hoarsely.
youShe did not look at him—her face was crushed in her hands now.
He heard a sudden, broken sob.
“What does this mean, Anne?” he cried out desperately. “There must be some—some other explanation!”
otherAnne’s little figure slowly drew itself erect. Her hands came away from her face—to clench tightly at her sides. There was agony in her eyes, but they were dry.
“There is no—no other explanation,” she said in a low monotone.
Something stabbed with brutal hurt at Lane’s heart. That letter pretending to have been written by Mrs. Thompson—by a woman—the inge
