Chapter SixteenIt was Saturday morning.
Sally stood by the barred window, her back to the rose-coloured room that she loathed, her hands gripping one of the bars. Lazare had just left her, and she was trying to steady her shaken, trembling thoughts. For two hours he had been battering her with the one question, and at the end had gone away in a cold fury that shook Sally’s self-control and left her dazed.
“You think,” he said, “you think that we shall not proceed to extremities—you feel yourself sheltered by Etta—you think ‘she will not let them go too far.’ I tell you”—he stood in the doorway, a hand on either jamb, his light eyes hard on her—“I tell you, I am at the end. Till this evening I give you and no more. Then, if you do not open the case, you go elsewhere, where there will be n
