If you are going to demand a price for playing the game as I want you to play it, you may go.

You have my permission." She was very white.

She rose from the big chair and stood before him.
There was no anger in her voice or gesture, but her eyes glowed like luminous stars.

There was something in them which he had not seen before, and suddenly a thought struck his heart cold as ice.
With a low cry he stretched out his hands, "My God, Marette, I am not a murderer! I did not kill John Barkley!" She did not answer him.
"You don't believe me," he cried.

"You believe that I killed Barkley, and that now--a murderer--I dare to tell you that I love you!" She was trembling.