though the sight of him hurt her. "Don't be angry! Have pity on me instead." His nerves, already overwrought, gave way. "Pity on a murderess, a thief!" he cried. "Not I! I have suffered enough for my folly. I will go and tell the truth to-morrow. It was you who killed him. You did it in the cab and stole back to his rooms to rob—afterwards. Horrible! Horrible!" Her face hardened. His lack of self-control seemed to stimulate her. "Have it so," she declared. "I never asked you for your silence. If you repent it, go and make the best bargain you can with the law. They will let you off cheaply in exchange for your information!" He walked the length of the room and back. Anything to escape from her eyes. Already he hated the words which he had spoken. When he faced her again he was master of himself. "Listen," he said; "I was a little overwrought. I spoke wildly. I have no right to make such an accusation. But—" She held out her hand as though to stop him, but he went steadily on. "But I have a right to demand that you tell me the truth as to what you were doing in Barnes' rooms that night, and what you know of his death. Remember that but for me you would have had to tell your story to a less sympathetic audience." "I never forget it," she answered, and for the first time her change to a more natural tone helped him to believe in himself and his own judgment. "If you want me to tell you how grateful I am, I might try, but it would be a very hard task." "All that I ask of you," he pleaded, "is that you tell me enough to convince me that my silence was justified. Tell me at least that you had no knowledge of or share in that man's death!" "I cannot do that," she answered. He took a quick step backwards. The horror once more was chilling his blood, floating before his eyes. "You cannot!" he repeated hoarsely. "No! I knew that the man was in danger of his life," she went on, calmly. "On the whole, I think that he deserved to die. I do not mind telling you this, though. I would have saved him if I could."
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