“Child, you must leave this work,” he said softly, “forget the nightmare of your past—put it out of your mind, so that you will come to believe that the Red Hundred never existed.”
She did not draw away her hand, nor did she attempt to check the tears that came to her eyes. Something had entered her soul—an influence that was beyond all description or definition. A wonderful element that had dissolved the thing of granite and steel, that she had fondly thought was her heart, and left her weak and shaking in the process.
“Maria, if you ever knew a mother’s love”—how soft his voice was—“think of that: have you ever realized what your tiny life was to her—how she planned and thought and suffered for you—and to what end? That the hands she kissed should be set against men’s lives! Did she pray to God that He might keep you strong in health and pure in soul—only that His gifts should prove a curse to His beautiful world?”
With the tenderness of a father he drew her to him, till she was on her knees before him and her weeping face was pressed closely against him.
His strong arms were about her, and his hand smoothed her hair.
“I am a wicked woman,” she sobbed, “a wicked, wicked woman.”
“Hush,” he said sadly; “do not let us take our conception of wickedness from our deeds, but from our intentions, however mistaken, however much they traverse the written law.”
But her sobbing grew wilder, and she clutched him as though in fear that he would leave her.
He talked to her as though she were a frightened child, chiding her, laughing at her in gentle raillery, and she grew calmer and presently lifted her stained face to his.
“Listen,” she said; “I—I—oh, I cannot, I cannot say it.” And she buried her face on her breast.
Then with an effort she raised her head again.
“If I asked you—if I begged you to do something for me—would you?”
He looked into her eyes, smiling.
“You have done many things—you have killed—yes—yes, let me say it—I know I am hurting you, but let me finish.”
“Yes,” he said simply; “I have killed.”
“Have you—pitied as you killed?”
He shook his head.
“Yet you would,” she went on, and her distress moved him, “you would if you thought that you could kill a body and save a soul.”
He shook his head again.
“Yes, yes,” she whispered, and tried to speak. Twice she attempted to frame the words, and twice she failed. Then she pushed herself slowly backward with her hands at his chest, and crouched before him with parted lips and heaving bosom.
“Kill me,” she breathed, “for I have betrayed you to the police.”
Still he made no sign, sitting there all huddled in the big chair, as though every muscle of his body had relaxed.
“Do you hear?” she cried fiercely. “I have betrayed you because—I think—I love you—but I—I did not know it—I did not know it! I hated you so that I pitied you—and always I thought of you!”
She knew by the look of pain in his eyes what her words had cost him.
Somehow she defined that the betrayal hurt least.
“I have never said it to myself,” she whispered; “I have never thought it in my most secret thoughts—yet it was there, there all the time, waiting for expression—and I am happier, though you die, and though every hour of my life be a lifetime of pain, I am happier that I have said it, happier than I thought I could ever be.
“I have wondered why I remembered you, and why I thought of you, and why you came into my every dream. I thought it was because I hated you, because I wanted to kill you, and to hold you at my mercy—but I know now, I know now.”
She rocked from side to side, clasping her hands in the intensity of her passion.
“You do not speak?” she cried. “Do you not understand, beloved? I have handed you over to the police, because—O God! because I love you! It must be that I do!”
He leant forward and held out his hands and she came to him half swooning.
“Marie, child,” he murmured, and she saw how pale he was, “we are strangely placed, you and I to talk of love. You must forget this, little girl; let this be the waking point of your bad dream; go forth into the new life—into a life where flowers are, and birds sing, and where rest and peace is.”
She had no thought now save for his danger.
“They are below,” she moaned. “I brought them here—I guided them.”
He smiled into her face.
“I knew,” he said.
She looked at him incredulously.
“You knew,” she said, slowly.
“Yes—when you came”—he pointed to the heap of burnt papers in the grate—“I knew.”
He walked to the window and looked out. What he saw satisfied him.
He came back to where she still crouched on the floor and lifted her to her feet.
She stood unsteadily, but his arm supported her. He was listening, he heard the door open below.
“You must not think of me,” he said again.
She shook her head helplessly, and her lips quivered.
“God bless you and help you,” he said reverently, and kissed her.
Then he turned to meet Falmouth.
“George Manfred,” said the officer, and looked at the girl in perplexity.
“That is my name,” said Manfred quietly. “You are Inspector Falmouth.”
“Superintendent,” corrected the other.
“I’m sorry,” said Manfred.
“I shall take you into custody,” said Falmouth, “on suspicion of being a member of an organization known as the Four Just Men, and accordingly concerned in the following crimes—”
“I will excuse you the recital,” said Manfred pleasantly, and held out his hands. For the first time in his life he felt the cold contact of steel at his wrists.
The man who snapped the handcuffs on was nervous and bungled, and Manfred, after an interested glance at the gyves, lifted his hands.
“This is not quite fastened,” he said.
Then as they closed round him, he half turned toward the girl and
