Slowly the conviction that this was the true explanation of all that had
caused her such bitter heartburning in the unhappy past grew and deepened
in Diana's mind. A chill feeling of dismay crept about her heart. If it
were true, then how hideously--how _unforgivably_--she had misjudged her
husband!
She drew a sharp, agonised breath, her shaking fingers gripping the
bedclothes like a frightened child's.
"Oh, not that! Don't let it be that!" she whispered piteously.
She looked round the room with scared eyes. Who could help her--tell her
the truth--set at rest this new fear which had assailed her? There must
be some one . . . some one. . . . Yes, there was Olga! _She_ knew--had
known Max's secret all along. But would she speak? Would she reveal the
truth? Something--heaven knew what!--had kept her silent hitherto, save
for the utterance of those maddening taunts and innuendoes which had so
often lodged in Diana's heart and festered there.
Feverishly Diana sprang out of bed and began to dress, flinging on her
clothes in a very frenzy of haste. She would see Olga, and beg, pray,
beseech her, if necessary, to tell her all she knew.
If she failed, if the Russian woman obstinately denied her, she would
know no peace of mind--no rest. She felt she had reached
breaking-point--she could endure no more.
But she would not fail. When Olga came--and she would be here soon, very
soon now--she would play up the knowledge she had gleaned from the
newspaper for all it was worth, and she would force the truth from her,
willing or unwilling.
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