whisper echoed him:
"Yes, oh! yes! Awful—it is awful!"
And suddenly realising that the man must have fallen dead just where he was sitting, Keith became stock silent, staring at the floor.
"Yes," she whispered; "Just there. I see him now always falling!"
How she said that! With what a strange gentle despair! In this girl of evil life, who had brought on them this tragedy, what was it which moved him to a sort of unwilling compassion?
"You look very young," he said.
"I am twenty."
"And you are fond of—my brother?"
"I would die for him."
Impossible to mistake the tone of her voice, or the look in her eyes, true deep Slav eyes; dark brown, not blue as he had thought at first. It was a very pretty face—either her life had not eaten into it yet, or the suffering of these last hours had purged away those marks; or perhaps this devotion of hers to Larry. He felt strangely at sea, sitting there with this child of twenty; he, over forty, a man of the world, professionally used to every side of human nature. But he said, stammering a little:
"I—I have come to see how far you can save him. Listen, and just answer the questions I put to you."
She raised her hands, squeezed them together, and murmured:
"Oh! I will answer anything."
"This man, then—your—your husband—was he a bad man?"
"A dreadful man."
"Before he came here last night, how long since you saw him?"
"Eighteen months."
"Where did you live when you saw him last?"
"In Pimlico."
"Does anybody about here know you as Mrs. Walenn?"
"No. When I came here, after my little girl died, I came to live a bad life. Nobody knows me at all. I am quite alone."
"If they discover who he was, they will look for his wife?"
"I do not know. He did not let people think I was married to him. I was very young; he treated many, I think, like me."
"Do you think he was known to the police?"
She shook her head. "He was very clever."
"What is your name now?"
"Wanda Livinska."
"Were you known by that name before you were married?"
"Wanda is my Christian name. Livinska—I just call myself."
"I see; since you came here."
"Yes."
"Did my brother ever see this man before last night?"
"Never."
"You had told him about his treatment of you?"
"Yes. And that man first went for him."
"I saw the mark. Do you think anyone saw my brother come to you?"
"I do not know. He says not."
"Can you tell if anyone saw him carrying the—the thing away?"
"No one in this street—I was looking."
"Nor coming back?"
"No one."
"Nor going out in the morning?"
"I do not think it."
"Have you a servant?"
"Only a woman who comes at nine in the morning for an hour."
"Does she know Larry?"
"No."
"Friends, acquaintances?"
"No; I am very quiet. And since I knew your brother, I see no one. Nobody comes here but him for a long time now."
"How long?"
"Five months."
"Have you been out to-day?"
"No."
"What have you been doing?"
"Crying."
It was said with a certain dreadful simplicity, and pressing her hands together, she went on:
"He is in danger, because of me. I am so afraid for him." Holding up his hand to check that emotion, he said:
"Look at me!"
She fixed those dark eyes on him, and in her bare throat, from which the coat had fallen back, he could see her resolutely swallowing down her agitation.
"If the worst comes to the worst, and this man is traced to you, can you trust yourself not to give my brother away?"
Her eyes shone. She got up and went to the fireplace:
"Look! I have burned all the things he has given me—even his picture. Now I have nothing from him."
Keith, too, got up.
"Good! One more question: Do the police know you, because—because of your life?"
She shook her head, looking at him intently, with those mournfully true eyes. And he felt a sort of shame.
"I was obliged to ask. Do you know where he lives?"
"Yes."
"You must not go there. And he must not come to you, here."
Her lips quivered; but she bowed her head. Suddenly he found her quite close to him, speaking almost in a whisper:
"Please do not take him from me altogether. I will be so careful. I will not do anything to hurt him; but if I cannot see him sometimes, I shall die. Please do not take him from me." And catching his hand between her own, she pressed it desperately. It was several seconds before Keith said:
"Leave that to me. I will see him. I shall arrange. You must leave that to me."
"But you will be kind?"
He felt her lips kissing his hand. And the soft moist touch sent a queer feeling through him, protective, yet just a little brutal, having in it a shiver of sensuality. He withdrew his hand. And as if warned that she had been too pressing, she recoiled humbly. But suddenly she turned, and stood absolutely rigid; then almost inaudibly whispered:
